Behind Closed Doors
by Kali47
Summary: A violent serial killer roams the streets of London in Sherlock and John's most frustrating case ever. It doesn't help that the detective is plagued by disturbing case-related nightmares he cannot make sense of. Beta Read.
1. Prologue

_From the mind which has brought you "The Long Week", here comes another _BBC: Sherlock_ fanfiction titled "Behind Closed Doors"._

_Words of caution my lovelies, this story is a tad darker and more twisted. Don't worry there still are the occasional bits of humour and fun, but it also broaches (although not too graphically) some more dire subjects such as child abuse._

_There are also - you will find throughout the paragraphs - the ever-present signs of the Easter spirit. I know this can seem somewhat ludicrous given the fact that we're in May, but well what can I say... this story was written in April._

_This work is, once again, beta-read by the ever wonderful Kate who took on the Herculean task of correcting my whimsical use of the English language._

_I sincerely hope you will enjoy this story and look forward to hearing your thoughts on it._

* * *

**Behind Closed Doors**

Chapters: 7 chapters + prologue & epilogue  
Type: case-fic, adventure, friendship, family, drama  
Rating: T  
Main characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, DI Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes  
(no slash / no incest)  
Timeline: Set after 2x02 "The Hound of Baskerville" and before 2x03 "The Reichenbach Fall"_  
_Summary: A violent serial killer roams the streets of West London in what quickly turns out to be Sherlock and John's most frustrating case ever. It doesn't help that the detective is plagued by disturbing case-related nightmares he cannot make sense of.  
Beta Reader: the wonderful Kate (aka love_like_burning)  
Disclaimer: Don't own the show; don't own the characters (sadly).  
Written: 06-10 April 2012

o0o

"_When the truth is ugly, people try to keep it hidden because they know if revealed the damage it will do. So they conceal it within sturdy walls, or they place it behind closed doors, or they obscure it with clever disguises. But truth, no matter how ugly, always emerges; and someone we care about always ends up getting hurt; and someone else will revel in their pain; and that's the ugliest truth of all."  
_-Desperate Housewives

o0o

PROLOGUE.

"The water stains on the carpet," Sherlock Holmes murmurs almost breathlessly, breaking the silence that has fallen on 221B Baker Street.

John Watson, who has started to quietly doze off in the nearby chair, shakes himself awake at that.

"What was that?" he asks, prompting his friend and colleague to continue. He looks sharply at the consulting detective who has fallen silent again. Sherlock is flopped on the sofa, head propped on a pillow and long legs dangling off the other side. He has been playing living-statue for the past – John quickly looks at his watch – three hours, give or take a few minutes.

The blogger has long since gotten used to these strange moods of his. When on a difficult case, Sherlock would often retreats within his head to think. He'd sit or lie down somewhere and stop interacting with the rest of the world. The first time, it had scared the good doctor half to death. He had though his friend was having a crisis of catatonia or something worse. Now, he's gotten used to it; it's simply one more thing to add to Sherlock's _long_ list of idiosyncrasies. Today, he's gotten the laundry done and straightened their flat a bit while the detective did... whatever it was he did within his head when he got like that.

When the doctor deemed the cleaning done, he finally decided to sit down and rest his eyes a little. The week has been a long one, even though it was only Thursday. Lestrade requested their help on a new case of art-theft involving several renowned paintings which have been lifted very recently from private owners all over London. No matter how good the security measures in place were, the pricy art pieces kept disappearing in the wind without a single clue left behind. A missing Rembrandt and three Matisse works later New Scotland Yard was still at a loss and the newspapers were starting to poke fun at their inability to catch the man they have nicknamed _The New Arsène_.

Sherlock and John have been on the case for over a week now, but paintings are still disappearing. The latest missing canvas was of a Parisian dancer made by Degas in 1877. It was stolen on Tuesday night.

"The water stains on the carpet, John." the detective interrupts his thoughts once more, sitting up quickly. His eyes finally come to life again and focus sharply on his colleague. "You know I hate to repeat myself, please pay attention."

"Right." The former soldier slaps himself awake mentally. _Welcome back amongst the living_, he thinks sarcastically. "Right, water stains on whose carpet?" he asks.

"Last owner- Dale," Sherlock stands up, grabs his coat from where John has neatly draped it on the back of the second chair. "In the living room where the painting was: there were no water stains on the carpet. But it was raining on Tuesday night. If the thief had entered via the window - like everyone supposes - there should be water stains but there aren't any."

The young man is out of the door before the end of the second sentence. Watson follows quickly, locking the flat behind him and sprints down the stairs to find Sherlock hailing a cab by the road. He hasn't stopped talking apparently.

"-not just a very talented thief, then. Do you see John?" he asks when a black car finally comes to stop in front of them.

The doctor nods 'No', but the brunette already has his back to him as he gets inside the car. The shorter man follows him in and the monologue resumes after Sherlock instructs the cabbie to take them to New Scotland Yard.

"I thought all along he had some inside information. I fancied a mole within the insurance company but this is far better. This is more clever; more elegant. _This_ is why he came in through the front door." the detective finishes, clearly elated by the thrill of the chase.

John still has no clue what is going on, or who the culprit is. He can't really remember what the carpet looked like; he seems to recall it being blue. Sherlock is facing him with a raised eyebrow now, probably trying to gauge if his friend has understood his explanation. Or maybe he is just waiting for John's word of praise that usually accompanies one of his brilliant tirades. The blogger fancies Sherlock's gotten fond of them, not that the detective would _ever_ admit to it, of course.

"Wasn't it blue?" the doctor asks hesitantly, when the scrutiny finally gets too much. "The carpet, I mean."

The flitting look of indignation which crosses Sherlock's face is almost comical, but it disappears practically instantly to be replaced by the detective's usual mask of indifference. He turns his head to his left sharply and lets his gaze wander outside the window.

John remains silent for the rest of the ride and the entire length of their march along the corridors of New Scotland Yard which takes them to Detective Inspector Lestrade's luminous office. The doctor lengthens his step when they reach the glass door and opens it for his flatmate, letting him enter first. It's a silent apology of the sort, which the younger man seems to understand, if the small smirk that instantly graces his lips is anything to go by.

"Sherlock, John," the DI greets them as they enter. "Have you got something for me?" he asks, sounding almost desperate.

There's a clutter of papers on his desk. Most seem to be related to the case, John sees. He notices photographs of the stolen paintings, schemes from the security devices that have been disabled by the thief, copies of the current market-value for all the precious art pieces.

"Just a thief," Sherlock answers, looking smug. "Would that interest you?" he asks and John has to fight an impulse to roll his eyes. _Show off,_ he thinks fondly.

"You know who did it?" the silver-haired man asks hopefully.

Sherlock smiles, takes a breath and treats them to one of his trademark blink-and-you-miss-the-punchline style speeches. John pays attention this time and he's left amazed. He says as much and his friend smiles again.

Lestrade grabs his phone and barks orders into it the minute the person on the line picks up. "Get me an arrest warrant for Evanson," he requests. "Yes, Donovan, the security advisor who has been working with us on this case, that same Evanson. He's our thief!" He Hangs up.

oOo

On Friday morning, John opens the newspaper to a picture of the missing Degas and the phrase _'New Arsène arrested' _headlining it. There's a small portrait of Lestrade within the article and a detailed report of the arrest. Sherlock's name is not mentioned but there's a quote of the policeman highlighting the _excellent work of those under his command_. The doctor decides the praise is also directed at Sherlock and himself and allows for a small smile of satisfaction to grace his lips.

His happiness falters when he turns the page and reads an article that describes the gruesome death of a child by the name of Karl Millagan. The twelve-year-old boy was found late last night in Ravenscourt Park, having apparently succumbed to various injuries. The reporter remains sketchy on the details but it seems the body was badly bruised and several bones were broken.

John closes the newspaper with a sigh. _What a cruel world._

o0o

Sherlock spends Friday and Saturday breeding larvae in steaks and calculating their growth. John gives him a few disgusted looks but he refrains from complaining. Mrs Hudson doesn't come up at all, probably because the good doctor warned her off.

The young man sits up, straightens his back before grabbing for a glass and filling it with some tap water. He drinks contentedly, then takes a few steps to the living room and notices John's absence. He doesn't recall hearing him leaving the flat; he must have been too engrossed in his researches, he surmises. He absentmindedly leaves the empty glass on a shelf and goes back to his experiment.

It's time to start dissecting the larvae and Sherlock is feeling gleeful. He reaches down to a drawer and retrieves his box of scalpels. He drops it on the table and opens it only to be momentarily frozen in surprise. The blades are all accounted for but there's an extra item which he clearly doesn't remember ever putting there.

He takes the small oval entity in his hand and studies it with a perplexed frown. It looks like a little egg, wrapped in tinfoil. He sits down on his chair - experiment momentarily forgotten - as he unwraps the mysterious egg with the utmost care and precision. He sniffs at it suspiciously: chocolate, by the look and smell of it. _How odd,_ he thinks.

Not many people could have left chocolate in his scalpel box. Mrs Hudson tends to hoard _her boys_ with biscuits and the occasional bag of candies, but she always brightly announces it first thing when she comes into their flat. She's not the sneaky type either and the detective doubts she would go anywhere near his chemistry set anyway. John seems a more likely candidate. Besides his flatmate does tend to have a strange obsession for Sherlock's eating habits and apparently ravels in constantly remind him to _'eat something before you drop down'_.

Had he known the younger man would use his scalpels today and decided to hide food in the box, in the hopes that he would eat it? _Possibly_. The behaviour does fit John's profile but Sherlock is still doubtful. His friend has never done this before and there was an unspoken rule about staying out of each other's personal possessions, they respected. _Well,_ the brunette thinks amused, _at least John did_. That leaves the detective with only one suspect: Mycroft.

The young man gives the chocolate egg another suspicious look. His sweet-toothed-and-perpetually-on-a-diet older brother could easily be associated with chocolate or any other highly calorific aliment. But why would he leave it in Sherlock's things: a brotherly token of affection? _Nonsense!_

Filled with a new purpose, the consulting detective quickly pushes the larva experiment on the side – they can wait a little longer – and promptly starts dissecting the egg, looking for poison or any other unusual chemical compound. He doesn't find any and he goes back to his larvae an hour later, clearly frustrated.

o0o

"John?" Sherlock asks Sunday morning, sounding unmistakably ticked. "What is the meaning of this?"

The former soldier looks up from his computer at that. He turns his head to the right and gazes at his flatmate who stands by the kitchen door, one hand on his hip and the other holding in two pale fingers a small egg wrapped in red and green.

"It's a chocolate egg," the blonde simply replies, carefully holding at bay the smile that threatens to break free on his face.

"Yes, I can see that. What was it doing in my socks' drawer?" the detective questions.

John shrugs his shoulders and returns nonchalantly to his computer. "You're the detective," he mutters finally. "Deduce it."

"It's a chocolate egg, John, not a criminal mastermind. What do you want me to-" he's interrupted by the ring of his phone which he quickly pulls out of his pants' pocket. He smiles brightly – mysteriously appearing eggs instantly forgotten - when he sees Lestrade's caller ID flash on the screen.

John recognizes the smile, which only comes with a new case and promptly shuts his laptop off before standing up.

"There's a serial killer in London," Sherlock announces cheerfully after hanging up.

**TBC.**

* * *

_P.S. I plan on updating this fic every Saturday (or Sunday). I will announce it on Twitter should there be any delay. You can follow my account for updates, spoilers and more: **www[dot]twitter[dot]com[slash]Cristelle**_


	2. Chapter 1

**Behind Closed Doors**

CHAPTER 1.

Red and blue lights are still flashing in the pale morning sun when Sherlock and John arrive at the crime scene. The cab stops near the north entrance of Ravenscourt Park and both men exit in silence.

Sergeant Sally Donovan is near the police tape lines, talking with a young constable and she gives them a dark look as she spots their arrival. She clearly didn't know her superior had decided to call on them and she doesn't seem to agree with Lestrade's decision to enlist their help. Sherlock strides past her without the barest of glance, as if she was invisible. John gives her a tight lipped "Morning", which is returned by an equally terse reply.

They find the greying DI at the crime scene, next to what undoubtedly is a body under a mortuary sheet.

"John, Sherlock," the man greets them. "Thanks for coming."

"The body?" the detective questions without preamble, lifting an eyebrow, a clear sign of impatience.

"Yes," the DI dives in. "Man, early forties, still unidentified-" He seems to hesitate an instant. "-Not a pretty sight," he adds in warning.

He lifts the sheet and reveals the corpse of a brown-haired man, with a strong muscular built. His features are hardly distinguishable; his clothes are rumpled and covered in dirt and blood. To say that this man took a severe beating would be quite an understatement.

John puts on gloves and squats down to look at the corpse more closely. He opens one eye with his latex covered thumb and index and notices the presence of petechiae. He lets his fingers travel down to the neck of the deceased and feels along the bones.

"Broken neck," he says finally before standing back up. "That's probably the cause of death, although it will take a thorough post-mortem to confirm it, given the number of wounds."

The DI nods at that and takes some quick notes. Sherlock remains silent; his eyes are still roaming over the body.

"The little boy that was killed Thursday night," John questions. "Do you think it's related?"

"Same MO and location," the policeman confirms. "That's why I called you. Could be a copycat or a serial killer and I'd like to know which."

Out of the corner of his eye Lestrade can see Donovan and Anderson nearing. The detective's allotted time on the crime scene is almost up and he is not in the mood for another verbal spat between his underlings and his consultant.

"Anything you can tell us, Sherlock?" he questions.

"PE teacher, not currently working though: possibly because of his gambling addiction."

Lestrade's eyebrow rise up at that and he gazes up from his notepad.

"Look at him," Sherlock says as if it was obvious. "Very muscular, like a professional sportsman but the shoes are old and worn off. T-Shirt and shorts are both emblazed with a school crest but not the same one. Traces of foil on his thumb - scratch game - and numbers still slightly visible on his left palm - horse racing betting."

Lestrade quickly writes it all down.

"Found the killer yet, _freak_?" Anderson's nasal voice interrupts them.

"Anderson!" Lestrade warns him with a pointed dark look and the man bites his tongue. "Thank you Sherlock," he says in a more subdued voice, looking back at the tall brunette.

"What have you got on the first victim?" the detective questions.

"Body's still in the morgue, I'll have a copy of both files brought to you, if you agree to help us with the case," he says confident that the young man was going to take it.

Sherlock hums in reply before walking away. He stops after two steps and turns back to look at the forensic.

"By the way," he starts, faking an innocent tone. "Your fly is open, Anderson. You should tell dear Sally here to be more cautious next time. Or, better yet, to keep her hands to herself."

Donovan looks appalled and Anderson turns a bright shade of red, his hand flying rapidly to pull the zipper up. Sherlock walks away with his head held high.

"Happy Easter," John manages to get out - barely stifling his laughter - before following Sherlock who is already nearing the park's exit.

o0o

"Karl Millagan, twelve years old." Molly Hooper announces as she lifts the white sheet that covers the small body. "Suffered multiple wounds to the chest and the head resulting in a fatal traumatic brain injury."

John's stomach lurches at the sight. The boy's torso is a study in purple and blue, his nose is clearly broken. There are cuts on his cheeks and temple.

"I'll take a copy of the file," he says, his voice as in-control as he can get it, under the circumstances. The young woman wordlessly hands him one, she clearly knew they were coming and had enough time to get ready.

"You're going to find the monster that did this, right, Sherlock?" she asks - almost begs - with a pained expression, seconds before the detective leaves the room.

The tall man doesn't seem to understand the cause of her blatant emotional conflict and remains silent.

"We'll do everything we can," John assures her in a calm voice before following his friend through the door.

"She seemed even more confused than usual," the detective comments once they're out of hearing in the hallway.

John shakes his head with a sigh, looking at him with a pained expression of his own.

"You really don't have a clue why, do you?" he questions although he's almost certain to already know the answer.

o0o

When they get back to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson greets them at the bottom of the stairs. There are two manila folders on the first step leading to their flat.

"Some young constable stopped to drop these off," she recounts to them. "Said to tell you it's from Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Thanks Mrs Hudson," John says while his flatmate bends down to grab the documents.

"New case, I take it," she adds.

"Double homicide, serial killer," the detective happily jogs up the stairs. The elder woman watches him disappear with a frown.

"Serial killer on Easter Day, such a shame," she tutts.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," John says, left foot on the first step. "Apparently, Sherlock filled Easter away with the solar system and the name of the Prime Minister," he adds before waving goodbye and climbing up the stairs.

o0o

They peruse the files in silence. Sherlock reads off the report on both victims. There isn't much on the boy, but the elder man's file - Jackson Rattiger _currently unemployed PE teacher_ - is a bit more furnished. He's been employed by several schools over the years but never stayed at the same place for too long. There's a copy of his police record and it shows a few arrests for disorderly conduct and drunk driving. His bank statement is the clear telltale of a man with a _gambling problem_.

John looks through the medical files in silence. The post-mortem on Rattiger hasn't been conducted yet so he has to content himself with the report on Millagan. He compares it with what he has seen of Rattiger's body this morning and finds some similarities. Wounds clearly inflicted by punches and kicks to the upper body. Blows delivered to the head. The only notable difference is the cause of death, but there are a few medical reasons that could explain this slight change in the MO. Karl Millagan was smaller and weaker, he might have died before the killer intended him to. Or maybe it was the other way around. Perhaps Jackson Rattiger - who was bigger and stronger - fought back and the killer was forced to break his neck to still him so he could continue to beat him to a pulp. John shudders at the thought.

"Anything interesting?" his friend asks him, looking up.

"I'd say there's a good chance the same man killed them both," he replies tersely.

"Man?" Sherlock echoes with a lifted eyebrow, clearly wanting to know if John was merely making idle suppositions or if he has found some hard-pressed facts to back up his claim.

"Yes, man. The force behind the blows would suggest that. Not to mention that Rattiger was very muscular: he would have been hard to overpower for any woman," he explains and the brunette seems pleased at his analytical thought process.

"I was right on all accounts regarding Rattiger," the consultant says. "We need to know if he crossed path with Millagan."

"They might have met at a school at some point?" John offers. "Or maybe they were just both in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The detective lifts an eyebrow again.

"It's a large park, Sherlock. It wouldn't be unusual for a kid to play there and it's a good place for running," the doctor explains.

"I need to talk with the parents," Holmes says sitting up. John's eyes go wide at that.

"You sure it's a good idea?" he quickly stands up as well and steps in front of the door, effectively stopping the other man in his tracks.

"We need to know which of your theories is true. They're the only ones with the answer."

"Their child has just died, Sherlock." the doctor tries to explain.

"And surely they want to know who is responsible." he says, tying his scarf around his neck, completely missing his friend's point. The blonde decides to switch tactics.

"Why was Molly sad?" the doctor asks crossing his arms on his chest, feet firmly planted on the floor, a clear indication that he was not going to move anytime soon.

"I'm trying to solve a case, John" Sherlock replies in an impatient tone.

"Humour me, _detective_," the former soldier spats back in a darker voice, clearly intent on making Holmes realise the gravity of the situation.

Light blue eyes flash menacingly at the tone, before the young man reminds himself that it's John facing him and that he's not his enemy. He knows there are some things that elude him. Idle things pertaining to the human condition: sentiments, desires and hopes are one of them. Trivial matters in his line of work indeed, but something of great importance to the rest of the human population it would seem. Social conventions were a waste of time for him but they meant something to his flatmate and he knows this is one of those moments where he has to listen.

"It's that caring-thing again, isn't it?" he inquires finally. He knows he's not answering John's question, but Molly's mood-swings seem to be just a mere argument in their conversation.

"You don't want me to talk to the parents," he adds eyes narrowing, taking on the deductive path again.

"I don't mind you talking to them, Sherlock. It's the _how_ I'm more concerned about." the blonde says, the darker tone now gone from his voice. "I know you, Sherlock Holmes. You're going to burst into their flat in a swirl of your coat, showing off you skills and being an overall insufferable git."

"Not appropriate, I take it," the brunette says, not remotely insulted by his friends words. It was said with some fondness, he knows.

"In this instance: no! They've just lost their child, they're in a terrible pain and they absolutely don't need this right now." Sherlock doesn't understand how it differs from any other victim, but he refrains from commenting, thinking he better play along this time if he wants to get out the flat anytime soon.

"If you want to go there, you have to behave," John adds, thinking he sounds like a parent scolding a child, which in a way he is. "You're going to be nice and respectful and give the smart-arse a rest for once."

Sherlock's face contorts and it looks like he's just swallowed something foul.

"_Fine_," he reluctantly agrees and John obediently steps aside.

o0o

Mrs Millagan is unsurprisingly a wreck. She's barely coherent enough to ask them who they are. John explains to her that they work as consultants for the police and the poor woman only seems to pick up on that last word as she lets them in. She's shaking like a leaf, her eyes are red and puffy and she clutches a handkerchief tightly in her left hand. She has a framed photograph, which she holds close to her heart, in her right.

They find Mr Millagan sitting in the living room. He thankfully seems more collected than his wife. She promptly excuses herself to go make tea, after her husband criticizes her for her lack of manners. John can hear the tingling of porcelain and cutlery echoing loudly from the kitchen. The noises seem to set her husband on edge so he quickly offers to go help her out.

He finds the poor woman struggling to line up the cups with her shaking fingers. The handkerchief has disappeared from her left hand, but she hasn't let go of the wooden frame.

"Can I give you a hand, Mrs Millagan?" John offers in his most soothing voice, perfected by years of working as a doctor.

o0o

The interview goes well. They sip tea quietly, the silence in between phrases punctuated by Mrs Millagan's constant sniffs.

John is currently discussing little Karl's habits with his father, who is seating with a straight back in his chair. He is wearing perfectly kempt attire: dark turtle neck covering broad shoulders in a very dignified manner. He keeps his hands clasped between his knees, unmoving. The blogger supposes this over-display of self-control is his way of coping.

Mr Millagan tells them how their child would often take his bike and ride to the pond in the middle of the park. Sherlock straightens at that, quickly opening his mouth, before closing it with a slight frown. John gets the hint.

"Did your son take his bike on Thursday night?" he questions in a measured voice.

Their host's eyes jump to their left at his words, and the slightest of frown creases his brow. He quickly scolds his features and replies negatively.

"The bike is still in the garage," he explains in a monotone.

"They found a second body in the park this morning," John starts and Mrs Millagan lets out a moan. The doctor gives her a few seconds to collect herself before continuing.

"He was a PE teacher, Jackson Rattiger, is the name familiar to you?" the doctor specifies.

"We already told the police we don't know him," Mr Millagan replies. "We were not familiar with every single one of our son's teachers."

Another sob escapes Mrs Millagan, and her husband gives her a sharp look, his jaw tensing.

"Is there anything more you can tell us?" John questions. "Anything out of the ordinary that happened recently?"

"As we told the police: no." Mr Millagan answers and this effectively marks the end of the discussion.

o0o

They walk away from the house and the shorter man zips up his jacket to fight off the cold April air. Sherlock has turned the lapels of his coat up, he notices. The detective is silently heading back to the main road and he follows suit.

"Well?" John says walking in step with him.

"Well," Sherlock echoes, looking ahead.

"Alright, alright," his friend gives in. "You behaved, thank you very much, Sherlock. Happy?"

The detective continues walking, seemingly ignoring him.

"Alright," John sighs, knowing what's coming. "Go ahead: tell me what you saw."

"Mrs Millagan is clearly unhappy in her marriage. She kept fingering her wedding ring, as if it was itching. Add to that the fact that she sat huddled in the corner of the sofa, a foot away from her husband, it's evident. Yet she will not leave him, because she doesn't have other things in her life. Clothes and shoes indicate she's unmistakably a housewife who does not go outside for other things than food shopping and picking up her son from school. She doesn't have a purpose anymore which is why she clutched at that stupid picture non-stop. She's depressed, clearly. She's taking anti-depressants - in large quantities - if the half-empty bottle prescribed to her two days ago on the desk is anything to go by." He takes in a breath and continues.

"Her husband was clearly more disappointed than hurt by the loss of his child. He's a military man - decorated several times - war hero, probably. He had high hopes for his son to follow in his footsteps; had already selected the military school he was going to send him to, the acceptance letter was on the desk. He was moulding him to become the perfect replica of himself but now his hopes have been thwarted. He will have to start again, but he has doubts about his current wife. Phonebook was taken out and left by the phone: bookmark inside, a little before the middle. Letter 'L' I would guess, like 'Lawyer'."

John shakes his head when his friend finishes; he had not seen any of that. The military background does explain the rigid posture of the husband and the over-medication can account for the woman's shaking hands.

"I just saw parents, distraught because their only child has died," he says.

"This caring-thing of yours: it doesn't help, John. It merely distracts you from the facts." Sherlock tries to explain as he hails a passing cab.

"Sorry for being human," the doctor mutters as he enters the car.

o0o

Molly forwards them the post-mortem report on Rattiger in the evening and John prints it off. Turns out he was right about the cause of death. The rest is unsurprising: it's a near-enough copy of the list of wounds found on Karl Millagan's body. He takes the report with him to the living room where Sherlock is perusing at some photographs from the first crime scene, probably looking for a clue that the entirety of Lestrade's team would have missed.

"Autopsy report," John announces as he sits down. He gives the papers to Sherlock who scans it quickly.

"Nothing we wouldn't expect," he adds. "Massive list of injuries, pre and post-mortem. No signs of drugs or alcohol in the blood."

The detective quickly finishes with the report and tosses it on the table. It lends on the picture of the Millagan family which his flatmate dropped here earlier. It's the frame that the boy's mother kept clinging to. She gave it to him, moments before they left. She'd seemed almost desperate that John had it. Not wanting to upset her he took it, promising her that they would do everything they could to find the man responsible for the death of her son.

He reaches for the papers Sherlock carelessly tossed and piles them up in another corner of the table, before rearranging the frame. The gesture doesn't escape the ever attentive brunette and he looks up at his flatmate.

"Why did she give it to you?" he questions, curious.

"I'm not sure," John answers honestly. "Maybe she thought a little incentive would make me more determined to find her son's killer."

It's a simple family portrait of the three Millagans. Little Karl is sitting on a chair with his parents behind him. His father has both hands atop his boy's tweed-covered shoulders, standing proud and tall. On his right side, his wife stands with her hands linked together, position slightly askew and a soft smile on her lips.

Sherlock grabs the frame and looks at it for a few seconds before putting it back on the table.

"Caring is not an advantage," he says as if it was some grand and profound truth.

John looks up at him, clearly puzzled. _How can someone see the act of caring as a disadvantage, _he ponders. He frowns and is about to question Sherlock on it when the brunette speaks up again.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken," he says. "Caring is not an advantage."

John remains silent, replaying the words in his mind. He wonders at his friend's tone. It sounded like that of a boy reciting a lesson. We all die in the end, so why bother caring? _Who the hell lives with a motto like that,_ he wonders bitterly.

"Who taught you that?" John questions, in the end. He's unsure why, but he has an unshakable feeling that those were not Sherlock's own words.

His friend remains silent, carefully avoiding his gaze and this only serves to confirm his suspicion.

"Whose words are those, Sherlock?" he asks again more insistently.

"Mycroft's," the detective says at large before sitting up and picking up his violin from a nearby shelf. The doctor knows it's a definite sign the conversation is over.

His flatmate starts playing a dark melody and John wonders - not for the first time - at what Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood must have been like. Seeing the results of their upbringing, their aloofness to anything even remotely emotional, their disregard for sentiments. It makes John wonder if he really wants to know what has happened to them.

He knows he will ask eventually, but days like this: he really is afraid what the answer will be.

o0o

Sherlock opens his eyes to darkness. He blinks and his gaze finally grows accustomed to the lack of light. Blurry shapes come into view and he discovers he's inside a large corridor. The interior seems familiar but he cannot place it.

Curiosity takes the better of him and he starts walking forward. His bare feet tread against soft carpet and it doesn't take him long to reach his destination. He pushes a closed door open and bright light instantly assaults him. He blinks and raises a hand up to shield his eyes even as he walks inside. He's afraid, he realises, but he doesn't know why. He hears a sharp noise on his left, which he cannot recognise. He's tempted to look but he's frozen in fear. With his hand still half shielding his eyes, he can only see a small rounded wooden table and shelves filled with books on his right. There's a framed photograph on the table, next to fine crystal decanters and a set of matching glasses.

Sherlock wakes up with a start. He sits up quickly, vision swarming for a moment because of the too rapid change of stance. His eyes promptly scan the living room and he realises at once he is back in the safety of Baker Street.

He lets out a panting breath and passes a weary palm on his face. He notices, not without surprise, that his hand is slightly shaking. The remnants of his dream quickly fade away, but the fear lingers.

He shuts his eyes tightly closed and forces his body to calm down. He's in the middle of a case and he doesn't have the time to indulge in the ludicrous whims of his subconscious.

**TBC.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Behind Closed Doors**

CHAPTER 2.

Jackson Rattiger is all over the news the next day. The press has not wasted any time putting two and two together and they are already hinting at a possible serial killer roaming the streets in West London.

Lestrade phones a little later to know if they have any leads. They don't. He speaks with Sherlock, and the conversation is very short. The DI recounts his recent interview of Rattiger's little sister and next of kin and the consulting detective deems it all uninteresting. Knowing of the deceased passions and joys in life is not going to help him find the killer and he tells the Yarder as much. Sherlock is all but ready to hang up, when Lestrade quickly lets him know he has one more thing for him and that this one will interest him.

"Rattiger worked as a teacher for The William Hogarth School last year," he says quickly. "That's the same school Karl Millagan went to."

"So they knew each other," Sherlock says in the receiver, with interest.

"Quite possibly. Rattiger only worked there three months and I don't know yet if he had Millagan in one of his classes, but it's something to go on."

"Very interesting indeed, Lestrade," Sherlock says. "Got to go."

"John?" he calls up, louder, once he has pocketed his phone. His flatmate's head peers in living room seconds later.

"New lead?" he asks.

"Rattiger worked at Millagan's school. Get ready, we're going there."

o0o

The headmaster of William Hogarth doesn't seem very pleased to talk with police consultants. She waves them in their office with a lean and rigid hand, the motion sharp as a slap. She sits at her desk and looks at them over the rim of thick spectacles with tight hawk-like eyes that make John uneasy.

"What do you want to know?" she asks without preamble.

"Karl Millagan and Jackson Rattiger were both murdered recently and the only connection between the two is this school." Sherlock dives in with his usual subtlety.

"If you're suggesting we're implicated in some way, you've lost your mind, young man," she says tersely in reply as if she was scolding one of her pupils. "Mr Rattiger was a part of our staff for only a short period of time last year. We had to let him go when we realized he wasn't what we were looking for."

"Millagan was in his class," the detective states, with the same cutting tone. _Match made in Heaven, _John sarcastically thinks. He estimates they have another three minutes before they're thrown out of the school.

"I didn't say that," the headmaster counters coldly and Sherlock sniggers.

"This whole thing puts you in a rather dire situation, doesn't it? What with the impending inspection from the Ofsted," he trails on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "You're afraid to lose some of your local donators and that would impend the upcoming renovations you've planned for the school. So you're hoping to get rid of us as quickly as you can, to make a few of those reassuring phone calls you're so desperate to do and also possibly to get that long awaited drink from that bottle of sherry you're trying hard not to think about."

The headmaster clearly pales at his words. Her lips become a fine red line and John can hear her teeth grinding from the pressure of her set jaw.

"I never said Millagan was in Rattiger's class," she says again through still tight lips.

"You didn't have to," Sherlock replies. "The report is still on the left of your desk." With that final blow, he gets up and motions for John to do the same. "If you've forgotten it already-" he adds as parting words "-then you're the one who has _lost your mind_."

They're escorted outside the school perimeter instants later with specific instructions _never_ to return.

"Well, that went well." the former soldier says as they stroll down the street.

"Oh, don't give me that look," Sherlock says, turning the lapels of his coat up again. "She's more interested in the reputation of her precious school than the murder of one of her pupils," the venom is evident in his voice and that has John smiling.

"And she dared insult that wonderful mind of yours... clearly she had it coming," he says with mirth.

The detective tries to appear unaffected by the joke, but he can't quite stop the right corner of his mouth to turn up in half a smile.

"What now?" John asks more seriously. "We know the two victims knew each other. Could still be a coincidence, but seems unlikely."

"I need to see the park again," Sherlock replies as he hails a cab.

o0o

"What do you see?" the detective asks, standing exactly where the corpse of Rattiger was found.

"Grass, trees, bushes, rocks," the doctor rattles off. "It's a park, Sherlock, like any other park."

The taller man regards him with his _my-god-what-must-it-be-like-in-your-head_ look again.

"The boy came to the park to spend time at the pond, but it is a good five minute walk away from where we are," he starts explaining, right hand waving around to indicate the direction. "The path, which a runner might want to take to exercise, is a good thirty feet away in that direction." Another wave of his hand. "There's a CCTV camera at the entrance of the park but it's not covering this area, and with these bushes." A third wave of lean fingers. "Passers-by couldn't have seen what was going on here."

"Okay," John says. "So not a random location. The victims were killed here because it was a convenient place."

Sherlock gives him _the look_ again and the doctor braces himself for another list of things he must have missed.

"Look at the grass, John," the detective says instead as if all the answers were at their feet. The blogger lowers his gaze again and really _looks_, trying to see the world the way his friend does.

"Grass not mowed recently. Not of very good quality like you would find in a golf club or a really well tended to garden," the blonde adds hesitantly, thinking how strange it was to be describing grass out loud. "Several imprints of shoes here and there," he continues. If he looks closely enough, he can see his own footprints and Sherlock's. "Ours and quite possibly those of half of Scotland Yard." He gazes up briefly at his flatmate to see if he was doing this right, the younger man nods at him to continue.

He doesn't really know what to observe anymore and he's about to tell Sherlock as much when a sudden thought interrupts him; he remembers their latest case in a flash and looks at the ground and their surroundings once more.

"No mud from the recent rain," he says a little bit proud at himself for getting it this time. "The large trees prevented the water from hitting this part of the park," Sherlock gives him what he thinks is a praising smile at that. It's a definite sign that he is on the right track; except his thoughts have hit a dead-end.

"Look at the grass, John" Sherlock advises again feeling his friend is at a standstill.

The blogger does, but he only sees green and brown. There's no friendly clue jumping up at him, waving its hand and calling out to him _notice me, notice me_. He only sees strands of herb, dead leaves and the occasional pine needle. "It's just grass," the blonde says again. There's nothing out of the ordinary about it; it doesn't look like two people were murdered here recently.

"Oh," he says suddenly, realizing it _really doesn't_ look like two people were murdered here. "Oh," he repeats peering up at the brunette, with a somewhat comical surprised expression on his face. "They weren't killed here," he rushes out the thought and Sherlock smiles brightly.

John gazes back down, amazed. It has taken him about fifteen minutes to see it and he probably never would have made the connection if his friend hadn't kept telling him to look but he has the absolute certainty that the detective had seen everything mere minutes after their arrival.

"No, they were not. With the amount of beating they took, there should be blood splatter all over the area, but there are only small drops where the bodies were found," Sherlock confirms. "They were killed elsewhere and dumped here."

"This looks less and less like random murders," the sandy-haired man speaks his thoughts aloud once more.

His friend distractedly hums is agreement. He stands tall, turning on himself slowly, and casts his eyes all around him.

"We need to find the path the killer used to come here," he says finally.

"CCTV camera at the entrance," John remembers. He peers to his right and sees bits of the walking path through the bushes. This seems an unlikely venue: too much possible witnesses. On his left though, are the sturdy trees that kept the rain at bay.

"Through the trees?" John offers, thinking it was easy to go back to the A402 through them. There was a small iron barrier on the border of the park, but it was only 3 feet tall.

"Most likely," Sherlock agrees, walking off in that direction. "Keep your eyes peeled," the detective advises, as they stalk off in the dense vegetation.

o0o

Once they reach the fence they discover that their assumption is correct. There are some more droplets of blood near the iron bars. Most likely at the place where the killer lifted the corpses over the rim before escalading the barrier himself.

The detective finds some strands of a dark synthetic fibre on one of the iron bars, which he pockets immediately.

"The Millagans live on Stamford Brook Road," John comments, peering over the fence. "It's not even five minutes from here."

He gazes left and right at the road. "Residential area; must not have a lot of traffic in the middle of the night."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "Easy to park, unload a corpse from the boot of a car and quickly toss it over the fence without being noticed."

The detective takes the strands he found out of his pocket and holds it out to John. "Synthetic. Too rough for clothing."

"Car boot carpet?" John asks, understandingly. "You should give it to Lestrade, they can maybe find the car manufacturer from it."

"Fat lot of good that will do," the dark-haired man replies. "What if it says Ford? Should we go and arrest all the Ford drivers of London."

"It's evidence, Sherlock," John chastises.

"Fine," he says reluctantly. "You go take the _evidence_ to Lestrade." The detective quickly jumps over the fence. "I'm going back to Baker Street."

o0o

Sherlock comes back to the flat with a headache. He shrugs off his coat and leaves it in a heap on his chair with his vest. He's feeling too warm and he goes to open a window. Cool air greets him and he breathes a little easier. His body is trying to tell him something and he curses at its basic needs. He quickly wonders when it was that he last ate anything. He can't remember - which to him is clearly a sign it's time to eat a little bit again - except he's not hungry at all.

Thinking a good smoke would do nicely instead, he walks to the skull in the hopes of finding a pack of fags underneath it. The cigarettes are gone: they've been replaced by a three inches high chocolate bunny holding a very orange marzipan carrot.

He's puzzled and he turns back to the living to ask John why he keeps finding candies all over the place, only to remember he sent his flatmate to New Scotland Yard. Feeling too tired to search the flat for his cigarettes; he takes the bunny in his hand and bites his head off in protest. He walks back to the sofa and eats the rest of the strange creature but it does little to appease his headache.

He purposefully brushes his body's needs aside and throws all his energy into the case that litters the coffee table. He looks at the list of wounds on the coroner's files and tries to conjure up a mental picture of the assailant. A man, most definitely. Tall and strong to be able to overpower Rattiger. Owns a car, with a boot big enough to stuff a grown man inside. Someone who lives in the area, given his good knowledge of the park. Someone with violent urges and a thirst for blood.

The words in front of him blur and he blinks rapidly to sharpen his vision. It works for a few minutes but then the words blur again and he realises that it isn't food that his body is requesting but sleep. Passing a wary hand through his hair, he curses at his body's weakness.

Between the art-theft case and this one, he has only indulged in small naps here and there for two weeks and it was apparently taking its toll on him. "Sleeping is so dull," he criticizes out loud. "There are so much more interesting things to be doing instead."

His body doesn't seem to agree with his train of thoughts and an unwanted yawn escapes his lips. He gazes at the table to remind himself he has better things to be doing than sleeping. The edges of his vision blur again and he considers taking a short nap. But then he remembers how his last nap has ended and he realizes he really doesn't want to be sleeping again anytime soon.

That's all very well, except his body feels terribly heavy to him now. Even the simplest of movement - like reaching for a photograph of the first crime scene - seems to require an unusual amount of energy. He yawns loudly as he studies the image an instant before dropping it back on the table. It lends next to the Millagan family portrait John has left there. What was it he had called it? _A little incentive to make them more determined_, he remembers after a second.

He takes the frame in his right hand and peers at it with curiosity; it feels heavy in his grasp. He never really understood the purpose of having family portraits made. Only people with a terribly bad memory needed to have printed reminders of their relatives. He knew he didn't require a resin-coated piece of paper to remember his sibling's features. He couldn't forget what Mycroft looked like even if he wanted to. He had tried to delete his nosy, meddling and insufferable older brother from his mind several times already, to no avail.

He gazes at the offending portrait once more. There's a light uneasiness that creeps over him when he looks at it. It doesn't quite make his skin crawl but it definitely stirs something dark within him. He cannot rationally explain his reaction to the innocent item in his hand and swallows thickly before placing it back on the table. He averts his heavy-lidded gaze and decides to attribute the odd sensation to his sleep-deprived body acting up in protest. Leaning back more comfortably in the sofa he stifles another yawn and without noticing it, falls into a deep slumber.

When he reopens his eyes he finds himself inside a large corridor. He remembers it and realises at once he's dreaming again.

He tries to take a better look at his surroundings this time, but the corridor is still dimly lit and he cannot make out much besides the deep crimson carpet and the dark wooden walls. He walks forward to the room that he knows is at the end of the path, bare feet finally stopping in front of a dark mahogany door. Long and lean porcelain-white fingers tighten around the antique golden door handle and he pushes it open soundlessly.

Bright light assaults him once more and he shields his eyes with his left hand against it. The fear grips him as it did the first time and he stands frozen in the entrance, unable to move forward or even lower his hand. The sharp noise he cannot recognise echoes again on his left and his insides coil. It's a battle of will between his curiosity and his fear and he finally takes two steps inside, lowering his hand a little. The light is still burning his retina and he can only see white through his squinting eyes. He knows he's not alone. He has the absolute certainty there is someone else on his left but he cannot make himself turn his head to look. His gaze constantly shifts to the right.

Through the brightness he can barely make out the bookshelves and the small wooden table. He wants to take a step to the left but his body walks to the right instead and he peers down at the table with the fine crystal decanters and set of matching glasses. A framed photograph is standing next to them. It's the Millagan family portrait and it makes his stomach lurch. The echoes of a voice resound in his ears, it sounds like his name but it's distorted.

He wakes up with a start, eyes shooting open at once.

"_Sherlock?_" John asks again with a frown. He's standing in the entrance of the kitchen, with his phone clutched in his left hand.

"What?" the young man barks, fighting to appear collected as the last fragment of his dream release the hold they have on his mind.

"You alright?" John's frown deepens as he notices his friend's too rapid breathing and even paler than usual features.

"I'm fine," the young man replies in a terse voice, which is clearly an invitation to drop the subject. "What is it?" he asks again, pointedly looking at the phone in the doctor's hand.

"There's been a third victim," he replies. "Same MO, same location."

**TBC.**

* * *

_Reminder:  
You can follow me on Twitter for the occasional spoiler, current status on this fic and early insight on what's coming next._

******www[dot]twitter[dot]com[slash]Cristelle**


	4. Chapter 3

**Behind Closed Doors**

CHAPTER 3.

Ravenscourt Park is once again bathed in red and blues as John and Sherlock arrive to the crime scene. The lights flash brightly in the late evening dusk.

They make their way into the park and through familiar bushes and find Lestrade and Donovan next to another mortuary sheet spread over a body. The location is identical to that of the first two murders and when the young Sergeant lifts up the sheet it becomes evident that they are faced with the works of the same criminal.

"It's a woman this time," Sally says with a slight tremor in her voice. "Body is severely beaten like the others."

John puts on a pair of latex gloves and squats down to inspect the corpse more closely. He doesn't find traces of strangulation, but the victim's neck is broken. The woman seems to be in her thirties, but it's hard to tell with the lack of light, split lip and broken left cheekbone. She has long blonde hair, knotted and matted in blood.

He stands back up and turns to Lestrade who looks worn out. "Broken neck," he tells him. "Wounds seem constant with that of the other two victims."

"That's three in less than a week," the silver-haired man says biting his lower lip. "The Daily Mail is going to have a field day with this."

Sherlock remains silent. He notices Lestrade has sent some of his men through the large oak trees this time. He can see the glint of their torchlight in the distance and surmises they must be looking for evidence at the fence where the murderer entered the park. He's pretty certain they won't find anything interesting. This killer is clever, methodical. He turns back his attention to the victim and takes John's place squatting down to look at her more closely.

"She's a postwoman," he says minutes later, standing back up. "Traces of ink on the pad of her right thumb and along the side of her index. They are smudges left by the ink used to writing the addresses on the envelopes she holds out during the day and the newspapers she delivers."

Lestrade writes it down in his notepad quickly.

"I'm pretty certain you'll find either the Millagan or Rattiger were on her daily route," he adds.

"The killer could have picked her up at random, off the streets," Sally counters and Sherlock turns to her with a dark glare. "Same as the other two."

"Millagan could have been a random victim, _she_ could have been a random victim," he says coldly. "But Rattiger most definitely wasn't."

The woman's evident frown of incomprehension prompts him to continue his explanation.

"A boy and a woman are easy targets for a murderer only interested in shedding some blood. Rattiger was strong and therefore more dangerous. The killer wouldn't have taken such a risk just to satisfy his thirst for blood when there were dozens of other '_random victims'_ to choose from. No, he killed them specifically. There has to be a connection." he finishes, turning back to the corpse, trying to conjure up a pattern within his head.

"And how do you know how a killer's mind works?" Sally cannot help herself from asking. "You part of the club?" she sneers at him.

Sherlock quickly turns back to her at that, taking a step towards the smaller woman. He looms over her, bright eyes dangerously flashing in the darkness of the park and the Sergeant instinctively takes a step back.

"Wouldn't you like to know, dear Sally?" he asks in a cruel voice. "You think you're so clever but your vision is narrow. You're a scared child treading on the fringes of a world you don't understand. That's why you cling so desperately to that misery of a man you spend your nights with. You-"

"_Sherlock_!" John's shout of his name interrupts him and he shuts his mouth with an audible clack, before turning on his heels and promptly leaving the scene. Donovan lets out a shaky breath, watery eyes blinking furiously.

"What the hell's wrong with him?" Lestrade growls, looking expectantly at the blonde doctor as if he had an answer to his question.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "He's been bit on edge lately."

"Well, tell him that I will not tolerate this kind of attitude. He might help out but I can't have him abusing my colleagues," the DI informs him seriously, as he pockets his notepad before motioning to the coroner's team that they can come and collect the body.

John nods and starts to walk away before turning back to Donovan. "Sorry, Sally," he says. "He probably didn't mean it, you know."

o0o

John finds Sherlock on a bench near the entrance of the park. There are a few curious massed behind the police tape and the first journalists have started to arrive. He moves to sit next to the detective and looks at the mad circus that goes on, on the other side of the road.

"That was uncalled-for and cruel," he starts in a controlled voice; studying his friend's profile in the hopes of catching a glimpse of remorse. Sherlock keeps his features blank, blue-grey eyes directed straight ahead.

"What's wrong with you?" John asks in a kinder voice.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock spats back with venom before standing up quickly. John is reminded at once of their fuelled conversation in Dartmoor. He keeps his mouth shut as he stands as well and follows the detective as he walks away from the crime scene and the frenzy mania of cops and journalists.

John looks at the tall detective ahead of him. He notes the tensed shoulders and rapid pace and he has to walk quicker than usual to catch up with him. As he falls into steps next to him, he pushes his hands deep in his jacket pockets and keeps his gaze firmly on the pavement in front of him. He knows it's not the right moment to question Sherlock and it's better to let the air clear before trying to find out what's troubling the young man. A quiet walk through the London streets in the middle of the night might actually be exactly what they both needed right now.

While walking, John takes the opportunity to review his friend's behaviour those past two days. It all started with the unsettling conversation they had about 'caring'. Then there had been the catastrophic interview with the headmaster of William Hogarth, then Sherlock abandoning him at the park earlier this afternoon and finally that dire face-off with Donovan which was way worse than their usual spats. It was common occurrence for the two of them to butt heads occasionally, but Sherlock was never unnecessarily cruel for no reason.

As he thinks further, John realises there has been an undercurrent of uneasiness emanating from the young man all day long. He knows Sherlock is a good actor; he is talented at masking his emotions and only allowing people to see what he wants them to. But John reckons he's gotten capable of seeing through the mask that his friend constantly wears. Something is troubling him and he is trying hard not to let that show.

They walk the four miles that separate them from Baker Street in a little over two hours and by the time they arrive John's mind is set. He's going to have a long discussion with Sherlock and solve whatever problem it is that has his friends' knickers in a twist.

Except, there is a familiar looking manila folder waiting for them on the first step of 221B Baker Street when they enter the building and the doctor knows at once, his discussion with Sherlock will have to wait. The detective opens it even as he climbs up the stairs and he starts reading aloud.

"Jennifer Staurer, 32, postwoman. She lives in Chiswick: married, no children."

He shrugs off his coat and walks to the coffee table, still engrossed in the file. "No criminal record," he notes, flipping pages, eyes quickly scanning the lines of text.

There's no further comment and the detective promptly tosses the file on the table. John takes it there isn't anything else relevant in it that would explain why she became victim number three.

"A woman," the sandy-haired man says sitting down in his chair. "It changes the victim profile."

"Forget your profile, doctor," Sherlock says, eyes roaming over the litany of papers. "They were all killed for the same reason. There is a connection between them. Something they did or something they knew."

"Alright. A child, a teacher and a postwoman. They were all living in the same area, killed within five days," John enunciates the facts. "Karl Millagan was killed on Thursday night, Jackson Rattiger on Saturday night and Jennifer Staurer tonight. There's one day in between each death. Do you think there will be a fourth corpse on Wednesday?"

"Probably," Sherlock replies. "Unless the killer has finished his list," he hopes it won't be the case as he loses himself in the documents again.

"We need more information to find the pattern," the detective says after a while, clearly frustrated.

"Give Greg some time," Watson says. "We'll have the autopsy report by the morning and more information on the third victim."

The detective's phone pings with a message and Sherlock reaches for it, hoping it is Lestrade contacting him with new information already. His hopes sag when he finds it's from his brother. He deletes the message without opening it.

The second text comes minutes later and it suffers the same fate. The third message goes to John's phone instead.

_[What's wrong with Sherlock? -MH]_

The blogger frowns, unsure of what to reply. Has the man with a minor position in the British Government already heard about the little incident with Donovan?

"If it's Mycroft, tell him to put his fat nose in someone else's business for a change," Sherlock says without looking up from the report in his hand. "Or better yet, don't even bother replying. Maybe one day he'll get the hint."

"He's just concerned about you," John says, still debating what to write back. His friend looks up at that, scoffing.

"_Concerned_," he echoes with disdain as if the thought was ludicrous. "He must have gotten bored with his little political power-plays again. So he thinks he can just come and meddle with my life to keep himself entertained instead. He's _interfering_; that's all he ever does!"

John looks back down at the text again. It doesn't say _'What has my brother done this time?'_ or _'Ask Sherlock to answer his phone'_ like the elder Holmes' texts usually do. It's hard to tell with so few words, but Mycroft really does seem concerned.

_[I'm not sure yet]_ John types back, aiming for surreptitious but knowing it's an almost impossible feat with the detective's eyes cataloguing every movement.

A reply is not long to arrive.

_[Keep an eye on him please. -MH]_

John rolls his eyes at that; as if he needed to be reminded. But then he notices the last word and he realises he can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he's heard the older Holmes use the word 'please'.

A last text arrives six minutes later and this surprises the former soldier. He thought the discussion was over. When Mycroft has something to say - much like Sherlock - he doesn't waste time. But tonight, he has. It's a telltale of the man's indecision, John comprehends. The elder Holmes must have hesitated to send this last text and when he reads it, the doctor understands why immediately.

_[Let me know if I can be of any help. -MH]_

Mycroft is _unsure_ to be qualified to help. _Bloody Holmes brothers and their stunted emotional development,_ the doctor thinks to himself.

_[Will do. Don't worry, Mycroft_.] he types back hoping his words could reassure him some.

"He really does care," John tells Sherlock as he pockets his phone before standing back up.

The detective huffs again.

"I'm going to bed," the blonde says, straightening and rolling his weary shoulders. "Try to get some sleep, you look tired."

Sherlock goes to the kitchen when he hears the above bedroom door close. He prepares himself a large cup of _very_ strong coffee. He absolutely does not intend to sleep tonight - or any other night, for that matter - until this case is finished.

o0o

John finds Sherlock frantically pacing the living room the next morning. He is waltzing back and forth, wild brown curls bouncing around nervously. The doctor yawns and walks into the kitchen to make himself a much needed cup of tea. He finds bits of coffee powder on the counter top. Surprised, he peers into the coffee tin can with curiosity and notices it is half empty, yet he's certain to have bought some less than a week ago. _Not again_, he sighs internally, waiting for the water to boil.

Sherlock is still pacing when he comes back to the living room. He turns on the shorter man quickly, grabbing a bunch of paper from the table in one swift motion and handing them to him with urgency. It's not hard to tell where the coffee has gone.

"Post-mortem report of Jennifer Staurer," the detective tells him, his fingers drumming quickly against each other.

The doctor swallows a gulp of tea before sitting down and looking at the documents. Sherlock resumes his manic pacing and John has had enough after the first paragraph.

"Will you sit down?" he tells him crankily. "You're making me dizzy."

Sherlock complies in one swift motion. Watson returns to his reading and the other man starts drumming his fingers in a staccato on the armrest of the chair. His left foot joins the choir when John starts with the second page.

"We're out of milk," the blonde tells him finally, lifting his eyes from the page.

_That_ effectively halts the manic tapping. Sherlock looks at him with a puzzled expression, wondering how this could be relevant to the case.

"You're clearly itching for something to do," John explains. "Either you calm down enough so I can concentrate on what I'm reading or you go buy some milk."

Sherlock huffs as if he'd been offended, but he stills his movements none-the-less. The doctor goes back to the post-mortem file, starting from the top of the page again. He's completed two paragraphs when the detective shoots out of his chair like a lightning bolt before grabbing his Belstaff and his scarf. He hurriedly leaves the flat in a swirl of his black coat.

He is back fifteen minutes later with enough milk for a family of four. He drops everything carelessly on the kitchen table and comes back to stand in front of John with an expectant expression.

"The wounds are consistent with the previous murders," the doctor starts explaining. "Cause of death is identical to that of Jackson Rattiger. Her neck was broken by the same motion: precise twist to the right. Multiples wounds on the torso and the face, blows and kicks administered with the same amount of strength."

"Same killer, same MO," Sherlock ascertains.

"Most definitely," the doctor confirms. "Lestrade phoned."

That piques Holmes' interest and he looks anxiously at John.

"You're still on the case, but one repeat of last night and you're out," the blogger says warningly, waving his index finger accusingly.

"Yes, yes. I'll behave," he gives in before questioning. "Did he say anything about the case?"

"They managed to get Jennifer Staurer's itinerary from the post office. The Millagans _were_ on her route. Apart from that, everyone described her as a kind woman who led a normal, quiet life."

"Another connection," Sherlock beams a little too happily.

"Lestrade was on his way to her husband. He'll call us when he's done to share any pertinent information he might have," the doctor adds. "But he doesn't want you anywhere near Mr Staurer for the moment."

o0o

Lestrade calls John half an hour later. He hasn't learned anything really useful. The names Millagan and Rattiger didn't sound familiar to the husband and he didn't recognize any of the pictures the DI showed him. His description of his late wife was similar to that of her colleagues at the post office. She was the quiet type - if a little curious - kind and generous; someone with no enemies and no problems.

After lunch, Watson decides he's had enough of his flatmate's nervousness and a bit of fresh air is called for.

They walk all the way to St. Barts. Sherlock grumbles at the loss of time but the dark glare John sends his way is enough to silence him. It takes them a little over an hour to arrive and the detective's energy level is almost back to normal when they finally enter the labs.

They find Molly filing documents in a cabinet and the morgue attendant seems surprised to see them.

"Hello," she says, clearly happy at the distraction from her boring duties. _Or maybe just happy to see Sherlock, _the shorter man thinks.

"Good afternoon Molly," the doctor replies warmly. "Thank you for sending us the reports."

The aloof detective distractedly hums in agreement at John's pointed look. The young woman blushes at that.

They look at the victims again and John discusses the wounds at length with Molly and one of her colleagues. Unfortunately, their visit doesn't shed light on any new clue and they finally decide to go back to Baker Street after an hour or so. They take a cab this time; both men remain silent during the trip.

Sherlock plays the violin to pass the time when they get back. He chooses Mendelssohn as it seems to suit his frustrated mood. He needs more data to connect the dots. He knows there is a pattern. There has to be, but he cannot see it and it's maddening. _One more day,_ he tells himself as the bow frantically dances across the strings. In less than twenty-four hours there will be another body and with it will come an outpouring of new information. More data: more facts. They will take the world's only consulting detective one step closer to finding the killer.

John finally begs him to stop playing around midnight. He advises him to get some sleep and Sherlock sniggers at the thought. The doctor has already taken the first two steps on the stairs when he changes his mind and comes back down. The brunette raises an eyebrow from the sofa as he watches his friend re-enter the kitchen. His flatmate crosses the living again a minute later with the can of coffee under his arm.

"No more caffeine," John tells him sternly, going back upstairs.

o0o

In the middle of the night Sherlock once again finds himself bare feet on crimson carpet and he curses John as he realises he's dreaming again. He had been fighting hard to stay awake but without caffeine as a weapon, he had apparently lost the battle again. He curses at his flatmate a second time, even as his feet start propelling him forward and his heartbeat picks up. He closes his eyes and tries to force himself to wake up but it doesn't work and he is in front of the study door when he reopens his eyes. _Study_, he whispers the word aloud. He hadn't known the room was a study before, but as he opens the door and the brightness assaults him, he instinctively knows this to be true.

His eyes fight against the light to no avail and he has to raise his hand to shield his gaze. He gets a glimpse of the room and notes the photograph and the decanters are still on the small table. _Study_, he says the word again - hanging on this new piece of information, as a lost man would to Ariadne's thread - and he takes a step forward. A sharp noise echoes on his left and a pained, whimpering moan follows. His upper body turns to his left at that, an unspeakable fear clenching at his insides, his heart beats so fast in his chest he feels like it's going to explode. With all of his will power he forces his hand to lower and he looks-

Sherlock wakes up with a gasp and a name dying on his lips. He struggles to get himself upright on the sofa and the motion is almost enough to make him throw up. He reflexively lifts up a shaking hand to his mouth, just in case. The tips of his fingers encounter something moist and he realises he his crying. His hand curls into a fist and he puts enough strength in the motion for his nails to pierce the skin of his palm. _This is pathetic_, he scolds himself, quickly wiping at his eyes with his other hand. He fights to regain control over his body and clamp down hard on his unwanted stirring emotions.

As his heartbeat finally slows down, the finer details of his dream start to elude him. He cannot remember whose name it was, he was going to say and the message his subconscious is trying to tell him evades him once again. He sits up frustrated and shrugs on his coat with more force than is necessary. He buttons it and ties his scarf tightly around in neck before leaving the flat.

He walks out in the dark night with no idea of what time it is. He doesn't care and he starts trading the pavement with no clue of where he is going. The repetitive motion of putting one foot in front of the other does wonders to calm his agitated mind and the fresh air is reinvigorating. He keeps walking turning left here and right there for no particular reason. Dawn starts to break when he reaches a familiar location. He sits on the bench in front of Ravenscourt Park and feels it's a place as good as any to sit down for a minute.

He is still on the bench when commuters start going to work.

**TBC.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Behind Closed Doors**

CHAPTER 4.

John is beyond worried and ten minutes away from calling Mycroft to get him to come to the rescue when Sherlock walks back into the flat.

He's about to give him a piece of his mind and yell at him for disappearing without notice in the middle of the night whilst forgetting his phone on the coffee table when he finally takes stock of his flatmate's appearance. The words of protest die on his lips instantly. Sherlock is drenched, long dark curls gorged in water and glued to his temples; coat and scarf are both dripping steadily on the lino. The young man is shaking and he looks miserable. The words 'lost puppy' jump to John's mind.

"Did you take a fall in the Thames again?" the doctor asks as he starts helping his friend out of his wet coat.

He quickly ushers him to the bathroom and turns the warm water on in the shower. He pushes Sherlock under the spray the minute it reaches a temperature he deems warm enough.

"Don't come out of the shower unless you've stopped shaking," the doctor orders in a tight tone that doesn't leave any room for argument. "Then you get out of these clothes and into something warm and dry," he finishes before going back to the kitchen.

He turns the kettle on and prepares tea for the both of them. He adds honey at the bottom of his flatmate's cup, thinking it might help prevent a sore throat and gazes out of the window as he waits for the water to boil. He notices for the first time today that it's raining. He grabs at his computer and pulls up the weather report to discover it has started raining at dawn. _How long has he been out_, he wonders.

Some fifteen minutes later, Sherlock finally reappears in sweatpants and one of John's larger woollen jumpers. _That_ elicits a smile from the blogger.

"You said to wear something warm," the young man reminds him with a slightly croaked voice, as he sits down at the table. His friend hands him a warm cup of tea and he drinks it quickly.

"When did you go out?" the doctor asks him.

The young man shrugs his shoulders to indicate he has no idea. "Middle of the night, I guess," he says eventually.

"And you stayed outside all this time?" the other asks, incredulous. "You didn't notice at some point it started raining?"

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders again and his friend shakes his head.

"What's going on with you?" John enquires after a while, concern clearly audible in his tone.

"Nothing. I was just thinking," Sherlock replies a little defensively, sitting up. He leaves the empty cup behind and goes back to the living room.

The sandy-haired man gets his phone out and texts Mycroft. _Desperate times,_ he thinks as he presses send.

o0o

John finally abandons the detective and Mendelssohn's frantic melodies around lunch time. He's almost certain the younger man won't even notice his absence and he goes down the stairs rapidly. He's quickly out of 221B and he enters the next door cafe a minute later. He orders a coffee and a slice of apple pie at the bar before sitting at an empty table. Sherlock's older brother sits down in front of him at exactly twelve fifteen. Dapper three piece suit and umbrella, as usual.

"Thanks for coming, Mycroft," John greets him.

The elder Holmes gives him a tight lipped polite smile at that.

"What's going on?" he asks him after a slight moment of hesitation.

"How much do you know?" John questions, taking a gulp of his drink.

"It would seem Sherlock once more behaved rather poorly at a crime scene recently," the ginger-haired man starts with his usual even tone. "He must have pushed it a little too far, this time, because Sergeant Donovan filed a complaint."

The blogger isn't really surprised. Sherlock had been unnecessarily cruel that night.

"I've spoken with Detective Inspector Lestrade and taken the proper measures to make sure this document gets... _misfiled_," he assures John with one of his trademark lopsided half-smiles that chills him to the bone. The former soldier gets the impression that it isn't the first time one of Sally's complaints gets lost.

"Lestrade told me my brother has been a little bit _'on edge'_ recently," he adds. "That's all I know," he tells the doctor honestly.

"For no apparent reason, he has been like that ever since this case started," Watson confirms. "Only it's getting worse now."

Mycroft frowns minutely, blue eyes narrowing and the doctor continues promptly.

"He refuses to sleep, even though he's tired. Usually, he would take a catnap here and there, just enough to be able to function properly until the case is over. But two nights ago, he drank his own weight in coffee instead." John shakes his head regretfully.

"I confiscated the coffee," he admits after a small pause, "So last night he decided to go out for a walk. He came back early this morning, frozen and drenched. He had been so preoccupied with _thinking,_ he hadn't even noticed it was raining."

Mycroft remains silent, but his eyes have lost a little bit of their coldness and the shorter man can see his jaw is more tensed than when he arrived. Sherlock is not the only one who wears a mask, he notes. And just like with his brother, John can slightly peer through Mycroft's at times. He catches glimpses of worry.

"Any insight on what might be going on with him?" the doctor questions evenly.

The elder Holmes shakes his head negatively.

"He's frustrated with the case," Watson ventures eventually. "But it's not the first time we have a tough one to crack. He's never displayed this kind of behaviour before."

"A frustrating case only propels him forward," Mycroft explains. "He will continue to try and solve the mystery until the end of times. All of his focus and energy will be put to that use, with clear disregard for anything else."

"I know that, but it's not what's going on. He was downright cruel to Sally the other night, for no reason," John tries to clarify.

"My brother can sometimes be cruel without really meaning to," the ginger-haired man says, undoubtedly speaking from experience.

"Oh no, no!" the blonde counters. "He knew exactly what he was doing." He remembers Sherlock's dark tone and menacing attitude and he tries to see if he can think of a previous instance when he has seen the younger man display a similar behaviour. His mind unwillingly flashes back to that hotel in Dartmoor one more time and this sparks a thought.

"Can you remember a time when Sherlock was really cruel to you?" John questions Mycroft suddenly, the beginning of a theory weaving itself in his mind.

"I'm not sure I understand," the taller man questions hesitantly, arching an eyebrow.

"I know you two don't really get along and you're constantly pushing at each other's buttons, but it's always rather innocent," John tries to clarify. "When was the last time he _really_ intended for his words to hurt you, Mycroft?"

"When he was detoxing," the elder Holmes replies after a long silence and John can see the man's mask crack a little more. He thinks of his own sister and her drinking problems and understands those days must be painful for Mycroft to remember.

"And before that?" he questions again. "When you two were younger?"

Mycroft doesn't understand where John is going with his line of inquiry. His questions are difficult for him to answer. He considers his relationship with his brother to be his biggest failure and he doesn't particularly wants to think back on their darkest moments.

He's tempted to sit up and leave the cafe. He already has a myriad of perfectly believable excuses ready to roll off of his tongue. He is Mycroft Holmes, the British government personified. He doesn't frequent cafes. He doesn't interact with former army doctor with psychosomatic wounds. He _doesn't_... except when Sherlock his concerned. Everything becomes possible when it's about his little brother. He sighs. It's because he is worried for his sibling's well-being that he is sitting at Speedy's today, talking with John Watson, he reminds himself. He closes his eyes and makes an effort.

He unearths the memory he has forbidden himself to think about for almost twenty years. He conjures up the day in his mind and the familiar contours of the Holmes Manor paint themselves on the canvas of his psyche. His brother - with cropped hair and limbs much shorter at the time - soon completes the picture. The younger Holmes is eleven years old and he has tears in his foggy blue eyes.

He looks up at his older sibling, his face twisted in a mixture of pain and fury and his words ring loudly in Mycroft's ears as if they had been spoken yesterday. _I hate you,_ Sherlock's voice resounds loudly, _you're just like him!_

Oh yes, those words had been meant to hurt him. And they had. Each single one had cut deep in Mycroft's heart and that was why he had let Sherlock run away in the forest of the estate that afternoon, instead of trying to explain to him that he didn't have a choice but to leave the Manor and go to University. He'd been too shocked still by the cold truth behind his brother's words to stop him.

An unexpected and sudden warmth on his left hand shakes him out of the memory and he reopens his eyes quickly. Looking down, he finds John's left hand covering his own. He cannot bring himself to look up or to move. The gesture is supportive and it anchors him in the moment, as he fights hard to regain control over his emotions. He cannot remember when it was the last time that someone laid a comforting hand on him. He revels in the momentary connection and reassurance.

"He was scared," Mycroft says finally when he has mostly regained control of his voice. "The one real time when Sherlock was really, truly, cruel to me. He was scared."

John removes his hand and grabs his coffee cup instead. He swallows a large gulp and realises his theory was correct.

"Sherlock was scared in Dartmoor," the doctor tells him finally. "And he was cruel too."

"What scares him now?" Mycroft questions, looking at John earnestly.

"I really don't know," he answers with a pained expression.

o0o

The violinist is still playing when John comes back to the flat. The doctor stands near the entrance and looks at him. He is so absorbed by the music, he doesn't even see him. The melody is still frantic, much faster than what the young man would usually play. John imagines it's a precise reflection of his friend's state of mind.

He still doesn't have a clue at what is so clearly upsetting him. All he and Mycroft can do is watch out for him and wait until either they finally figured it out or Sherlock decides to trust them enough to ask for help. Whichever comes first, John is ready.

He moves forward in the room and stands close to the taller man until the detective finally notices him. He plays a few more notes and lowers the violin.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asks. "Still cold?"

"I'm fine now," Sherlock replies as he sets his instrument on one of the shelves. "How's my ever-interfering brother?" he queries, sitting down on the sofa.

John cannot begin to guess at what has given him away this time.

"Concerned," he replies sitting on his chair. "Concerned and worried." _And he's not the only one,_ he thinks.

But Sherlock's no longer listening to him. He's going through the reports again.

The blonde grabs the morning paper he hasn't had time to look at yet. '_Still no lead on the Ravenscourt serial killer.'_ the title exclaims in bold. The former soldier reads the article quickly, frowning when he notes the journalist hints at a pattern of one victim every two days. Why not going ahead and publish: _lock up your children there will be a monster on the hunt in the streets tonight_, he thinks bitterly throwing the paper away.

But the worst of it is, a small part of himself is hoping for another murder. As terrible as it sounds, it's clear the investigation has hit a standstill and only new information could help them moving forward again.

Lestrade sends all his men - dressed in civilian clothes - patrolling West London. Discreet surveillance is set up on the park, additional CCTV covering every angle. Journalists wait by their phones - camera bag at the ready - car keys in hand. John and Sherlock spend the night looking through files they already know by heart. They have their phones within reach on the coffee table, waiting for the call that they know will come.

The clocks tick. Seconds turn into minutes which bleed into hours and everyone waits, holding their breath while the moon shines ominously over their head.

The streets stay safe; the park deserted and all phones remain painfully silent. When Thursday morning's first light finally breaks through London, everyone realises the killing spree is over.

**TBC.**

* * *

Thanks everyone for the reviews and lovely comments, keep'em coming.

Also you can follow me on twitter, for more info, spoilers and stuff:  
**www[dot]twitter[dot]com[slash]Cristelle**_  
_


	6. Chapter 5

_Here's chapter five, which I am uploading live from London, where I'm spending some lovely (albeit wet) holidays..._

_I'll reply to the reviews when I get back home!_

_Much love and enjoy this new chapter,_

_-K._

* * *

**Behind Closed Doors**

CHAPTER 5.

Scotland Yard gives a press conference in the morning with Lestrade on the front line. Sherlock and John watch it on the telly and it's evident that their friend is exhausted and that this whole thing is grating on his last nerves. He spits at an annoying reporter before he catches himself and quiets his tone as he explains that they don't have any new leads, but they're evidently still investigating and the entire force will do their _'absolute best to find and bring forth to justice whoever is guilty of those atrocious crimes'_.

"What now?" John asks tiredly as he turns the telly off. With no more murders there will be no new evidence. He looks back at the coffee table and realises all they know is there. There will be nothing more, and if they don't find something within what they already have, three families will never receive the closure they deserve.

"What do _you_ think?" Sherlock spits back, clearly ticked. The doctor is tempted to ask him if he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, only he knows all too well his flatmate hasn't slept at all last night. Neither of them has. The detective is tired and frustrated and John fears an upcoming row he really doesn't have the strength for right now.

"Sherlock," he tries in a placating voice.

"What?" the detective asks sharply, bitingly, walking back to the coffee table to get his phone.

"Calm down," his friend tries again, fighting to keep his voice level even though he is seconds away from erupting too.

"How do you want me to _calm down_?" Sherlock half yells. "When my mind keeps turning and turning a million miles an hour. All this information-" he waves wildly at the mass of papers littering the surface in front of him "-dancing frenetically in my head."

"That's what I mean, Sherlock. You need to slow down," John tries again but the brunette's not listening and he continues to speak as though he hasn't been interrupted.

"It's annoying, why couldn't there have been _one more_, John," he yells at him. "It's all I needed; one more murder to see the pattern."

"One more?" the doctor echoes bewildered and now his voice is rising up too. "We're talking about real people here."

"Oh, what does that matter?" the taller man shouts offhandedly. "I need more facts and data."

"They were people, Sherlock. Human beings," John's voice reaches the shouting range; all of his self-control now gone. He is itching for a good punch, as he takes two steps near his flatmate.

"So a guy beats a kid and kills him, and then he kills and beats a man and a woman," John yells, but he's too tired and to frustrated to care at this point. "What's wrong with that, it's just one more interesting case to the grand Sherlock Holmes! Never mind that their families might suffer, as long as you're interested!"

"What did you say?" the detective questions him and his tone is at once completely different. John should get the hint, but he's still too caught up in his frustration-fuelled anger.

"He killed a kid, a man and a woman," he yells again taking another step forward. "Actual human beings, Sherlock!"

"No, what did you say _exactly_," his friend grabs him by the shoulders with strength, effectively stilling him. The rage is gone and his blue-grey eyes have that laser-like inquisitive focus solely turned on him and the blonde's anger vanishes at once. "Your exact words John, what did you say?"

"So a guy beats a kid and kills him; then he kills and beats a man and a woman," the doctor repeats, his voice more subdued.

"Why the inversion?" Sherlock questions him, not letting go of his shoulders. "Beats and kills and then kills and beats." John whacks his brain to try and come up with an answer.

"Because he did. He beat the kid until he died from his wounds, then he stopped," he recounts what the medical file told him. "The other two: he killed them and then he beat them to a pulp," he finishes.

Sherlock lets go of him and he starts pacing the living room frantically, a hand on his chin, his brilliant mind firing on all cylinders again.

"Why didn't you say?" he questions at length, finally slowing down and coming to a stop near John. "Why didn't you say that earlier?" he questions again.

"I... I don't know," the blogger wavers. "It's not really important, he beat them and he killed them. It's definitely the same man who murdered all three of them," he explains.

"Not really important?" the detective echoes bewildered. "Everything is important. _Everything matters."_ He takes a few paces again and the former soldier thinks back on the reports.

"I thought the kid's death was unintentional. That it had happened before he could complete his 'ritual'. He was more fragile and a good blow to the head was enough to kill him. The adults received very little wounds before their deaths. He snapped their neck and then he really beat them," the doctor tries to explain. "I thought _that_ was his intended ritual."

"Unintentional," Sherlock echoes in a voiceless whisper. "Unintentional," he says again finally sitting down on the sofa, his eyes loosing at once their focus: a clear sign that Sherlock had lost himself within his own head again.

John sits back down in his chair, his friend's words echoing in his ears. _Everything is important. Everything matters. _

He is appalled and cold shivers run down his spine. _Oh my god,_ he thinks. _Have I dismissed important evidence that could have helped us stopping this killer earlier,_ he asks himself; scared to find out that this information could have prevented Jennifer Staurer's death.

"Unintentional, yes," Sherlock says again some ten minutes later. He blinks and refocuses all his attention on John.

"The child wasn't meant to die. It was an accident," he tells his flatmate. "He was the first event that set off a chained reaction."

"So what?" the blonde asks. "The other two were a cover up?"

"Yes, think about it, John. A child dies and who do we suspect? His parents, other children, possibly a teacher. Someone within a close circle," he explains. "But if two other victims, apparently unrelated, were to also turn up dead? Then it changes everything: the murderer becomes a serial killer and the grid search widens. New suspects are considered and people start thinking about profiles and lists." He takes a breath. "Oh, he is clever," he says with something akin to awe.

"That's why there was a change in pattern! The last two victims were only made to look like the first one. He didn't really want to kill them, but he had to; hence the reluctance. He was merciful; he killed them first and beat them afterwards, thinking no one would notice the difference."

"Well, he got that part right," John mutters in self-recrimination. "No one noticed."

"You did," Sherlock tells him and it doesn't sound like a reproach. Their gaze meet and he feels a little better about his mistake when he notices the absence of recrimination in his friend's eyes.

The moment passes and Watson re-centres his thoughts on the case.

"That changes things," he starts. "Who could have killed Karl Millagan is what matters, the other two are not as important."

"They're also important," Sherlock corrects. "But yes, our focus should be on Karl Millagan."

John calls Lestrade to let him know of their latest breakthrough. It's not easy but he forces himself to admit to the other man that he has made a mistake. His voice shakes a little when he apologises to the DI. Lestrade assures him he has nothing to be sorry for. None of the officers on the case, himself included, had made the connection either.

Lestrade decides to give this case a new approach and he plans on conducting new interviews with everyone who could have wanted to kill Karl Millagan. He promises to keep them informed. Unfortunately, he adds, Sherlock is still persona non grata within Scotland Yard's premises and he will not be allowed to witness any interrogation.

Instead, the detective and the blogger look at their files again and again. With each word that he reads, John feels his frustration level rise up a notch. He could be reciting the documents words for words with his eyes closed. He has memorised each sentence and each typo.

Feeling the need for some fresh air he finally gets up and decides to go to the shops. He's been living off sandwiches and microwave food for two weeks and thinks that it is high time for some reinvigorating vitamins. Sherlock predictably lets him go to the Tesco alone.

o0o

At the shop, John grabs three apples and a few oranges from the fruit aisle before walking to the checkout. There are some chocolate bunnies on sales near the tills. _Leftovers from Easter_, he understands. As he pays for his purchases, he realises he hasn't even had the time to explain to Sherlock the concept of Easter or why it was the detective kept finding chocolate items all over the flat.

His own mother used to hide eggs for him and his sister all over the house when they were little and he had always enjoyed the massive search party come Sunday morning. Surely, he thought, this was a game Sherlock and Mycroft had never played when they were children and he had thought this could have been something the young man would have liked, what with his inquisitive personality and good detective skills. He had thought this might have been a fun thing for them to do: something a little silly and _oh-so-ordinary_. He had wanted to give his friend that little bit of normality.

Unfortunately John had not, in his plan, made room for a deranged serial killer to strike over London during that very same weekend. Nor had he planned for his friend to fall into what looked like a really dark and emotionally unbalanced inner turmoil.

o0o

Sherlock pushes the cries of his hungry stomach and sleep-deprived body aside and forces all of his mind-power to centre on the documents in front of him. He knows this was the breakthrough he had been waiting for; the final piece of information that he was missing and that would allow him to connect all the dots. _The child_. It had all started with the child and their suspects list was suddenly narrowed down considerably.

He curses at Lestrade, momentarily. He is angry at being force to stand on the sidelines again. He _knows_ he should be at the Yard. Looking at the suspects lining up to give a statement to the detectives. Their choice of clothes; the impossible to hide ticks that betray nervousness; the words they choose to use as they recount their story. Those were all clues that he was missing because of bloody stupid Sally Donovan.

He growls, considering dropping by the Yard nonetheless. They wouldn't let him in: Lestrade has been clear on that subject. _Bloody Sally,_ he curses again and _bloody Sherlock Holmes too_. He had let the flare of emotions take the better of him and that made him speak without thinking. And now, as a result, he has to wait here with the idle hope that those idiots wouldn't miss all the interesting details for once.

He massages his temples, tips of his fingers digging deep against his skull and lets out a sigh. He's got a headache once more. He lowers his hands and massages the back of his tensed neck for a minute: deft fingers undoing painful knots in taught muscles. He lets his head momentarily rest against the back of the sofa and looks at the ceiling absentmindedly, exhaling loudly.

He growls in frustration when he reopens his eyes to find naked toes on a crimson carpet. He's fallen asleep again. _Wake up,_ he orders himself but it doesn't work and he trails ahead instead. Feet advancing of their own free will and propelling him forward until he reaches the large mahogany door. _All right,_ he thinks pressing down on the golden handle, _so be it_.

He takes two decided steps inside, hands clenched into fists at his sides to fight the urge to shield his eyes. _This has gone on long enough,_ he decides. This time he will go through the dream in its entirety: fear be damned! If his subconscious wants to give him a message, he will hear it. Then he will delete it and go on with his life.

He is momentarily blinded by the light and he closes his eyes against the pain. The fear creeps on him but he fights back with all his might. He concentrates on everything else: the coldness of the wooden parquet beneath his feet, the smell of leather and cigar in the air, the moist temperature in the room.

A sound interrupts his train of thoughts, always that same noise. Short and sharp and dry. A familiar sound, something he has heard before but that he annoyingly cannot replace anymore. A moan follows. A hurtful and broken moan, _in the voice of a young boy,_ he realises for the first time. The moan is an involuntary admission of pain, which passed unwanted through tight lips.

He senses movement on his left. Forcefully, he opens his eyelids and he turns in that direction. The light is blinding again but he narrows his eyes to mere slits and he is able to discern shapes for the first time. A rectangle, dark and unmoving: _a large desk_, he thinks. There are two more linear shapes on the side, undulating slightly against the brightness. _People,_ he wonders and he narrows his eyes some more to refine his vision.

They are silhouettes, definitely silhouettes. He sees blue eyes with a pained and horror stricken expression in them. The edges blur and he has to blink against the brightness again. He sees flashes of colours and movements. He sees a light brown oval, which is almost ginger; the swirl of something dark and menacing and fine tendrils of crimson red. The light gets too bright again and he has to close his eyes. In the most welcome darkness, he still sees the imploring blue eyes as if they had burned themselves against his retina and the Millagan family portrait dances in the background.

He wakes up with a cry and finds John's worried face inches away from his own. He wants to tell him to back off but he cannot find his voice anymore and he lets his friend help him up to a sitting position. The doctor sits on the coffee table and leaves one of his hands on Sherlock's still trembling shoulder. The grip is reassuring and it helps him settle his erratic breathing. He blinks back tears that threaten to escape his eyes and swallows nervously.

"Are you alright?" John asks after a while in his calmer voice.

All Sherlock can do is nod and the blogger takes the wise decision not to try and pry more information out of him. He contents himself in staying there, his hand still on his friend's shoulder, thumb running soothing circles on his clavicle.

"Thank you," the younger man finally forces out, merely more than a murmur.

John gives his shoulder a final comforting squeeze before letting go and sitting up. He enters the kitchen - deciding it was time to use the British cure to all problems - and prepares some tea. He has been living with Sherlock for over a year now, but he cannot remember a single time when he caught his flatmate having a bad dream. It's not the type of reactions one should expect from a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath. Dreams and particularly nightmares - he knows that well - are to be associated with feelings of fear, horror and distress. And he knows those emotions are normally absent from Sherlock. It's all facts and data only with him.

Feeling as if he is treading unknown and dangerous waters, he sends a text to Mycroft again. Hoping against all odds that Sherlock's seemingly omnipotent and omniscient older brother would have a magical solution to the problem at hand.

There's no reply.

**TBC.**


	7. Chapter 6

_Here is chapter 6, which I am posting now, although it isn't beta-read yet. My faithful beta is unfortunately Internet-less at the moment and I didn't want to keep you waiting. Please forgive all the mistakes which are unquestionably my own. A corrected version will replace this one, as soon as possible._

* * *

**Behind Closed Doors**

CHAPTER 6.

Lestrade phones mid-afternoon and goes into a lengthy and detailed report of his various interviews of the day. Parents, classmates and teachers have all been interrogated by police officers a second time. Almost everyone has an alibi for the time of death of the twelve years old boy (Thursday evening, approximately 07:30 pm). Mrs Millagan was preparing the supper while her husband changed the tires on the car. Then he joined her back in. All the other students spent the evening in their own homes and apart from two celibate teachers: everyone has a rock solid alibi.

Mrs Hudson drops by late-afternoon with a plate of freshly baked cookies. The smell is wonderful and John eagerly prepares some tea to enjoy them with. Sherlock barely lifts up his nose high enough from the coffee table to spare her a glance. Later, John goes to him with the plate of biscuits but he doesn't even take one. He just mumbles something about mud stains.

"Sorry about him," John whispers to Mrs Hudson, with a pained smile.

"Oh, it's alright dear," she says, patting his shoulder kindly. "I'll see myself out, let you boys go back to solving your case."

She's halfway through the door when John remembers their surplus of lactose.

"Mrs Hudson?" he asks to halt her and the elderly woman turns back to him. "Could I, by any chance, interest you in some milk?" he questions. "Sherlock went to the shop, the other day. He bought enough to fill in the cups of a little army."

"Oh sure, dear," she says brightly. "It's on top of tomorrow's shopping list; will save me the bother of carrying them heavy bottles back home."

"I'll bring you some then," John says, quickly retreating to the kitchen to grab three bottles of milk. He follows their landlady down the stairs and into her flat.

When he comes back out, some ten minutes later, he is surprised to hear voices emanating from their flat. He takes the stairs quickly and finds the Holmes brothers in one of their usual loud verbal joust. Mycroft is standing near the entrance with his back to the door, impeccable light-grey suit a stark contrast against the rather dark-brown tones of their flat. He is leaning on his umbrella, right foot crossed over his left ankle.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft," John greets him warmly, slightly relieved to see him; he was getting worried that his latest text would remain unanswered. The doctor gets a tight, tired, smile in return. This is apparently enough to set Sherlock on fire. He sits up sharply from the sofa and takes two steps towards the blogger, index finger accusingly pointing at him.

"You did this, didn't you?" he explodes. "_You_ called him."

"Sherlock," John starts, hands automatically going up, palms forward in a placating gesture. "It's not-" but he doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence, because the detective is growling again.

"Why did you have to call _him_?" he spats venomously. "Is it not enough that he's always interfering with _my_ life, never happy with the decisions _I_ make, constantly trying to force me to go in one direction or the other according to whatever grand scheme of his, he has on his mind-" he takes in a quick breath, before continuing with renowned fire, "-_one_ little display of weakness on my part and you call him right away, why is that? So that you can both gloat at me in unison?"

"Sherlock," John tries again, voice more pleading this time. "It's not like that at all."

The accusing finger disappears, curling into a fist and the young man stalks to his right, seething in anger.

"John contacted me, because he is worried," the elder Holmes says, his voice softer than the blogger has ever heard it. "He thought maybe I could help," he adds after an instant, almost as an afterthought.

The army veteran stays poised in the middle of the room with Mycroft on his right and Sherlock on his left. He's tempted to move to the elder Holmes' side slightly, so that he can face his friend when he speaks to him, but he refrains from the urge. Not wanting to make it too evident that he is siding with Mycroft in this quarrel and especially not wanting his flatmate to feel cornered.

"What could you possibly do to help, brother dear?" the younger Holmes seethes, through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing menacingly.

"I care about you, Sherlock. Please, let me help," Mycroft tries again. John can hear in his voice the familiar mix of worry laced with the helplessness of an older brother who doesn't know how to help his younger sibling.

Sherlock, unfortunately, hears something totally different.

"Don't insult me by pretending that you care, Mycroft!" the youngest quickly fires back. "You might fool John but this doesn't work on _me_. You're only fulfilling what you think is your responsibility," he faces his brother squarely on and takes two steps towards him. With his head minutely angled up to face his sibling's gaze directly, he delivers his parting blow, "You don't care, you never have! _You're incapable of it!_"

Mycroft's eyes flash dangerously at his words, the umbrella clatters to the floor and his right hand quickly flies up. The slap is sharp and Sherlock's left cheek instantly takes a redder tone.

The gesture surprises John and he anxiously waits for Sherlock's reaction. He braces himself for the eruption of a fight, ready to separate the siblings if need be, but the younger Holmes remains strangely motionless. The brunette stands frozen in their living room, all fight and fury seemingly gone from him. The doctor looks at him more closely,sees him swallowing thickly, his pale eyes brightening minutely as they become more watery.

Mycroft is also standing still - as unmoving as a statue - eyes downcast. He is completely bereft of his usual mask of indifference, John notices. The older Holmes looks truly appalled by what he's just done and he's clearly ashamed.

"I'm sorry," the ginger-haired man whispers, seconds later. His voice lacks the usual confident tone it always harbours. The man sounds hurt and frighten, as if he is the one who's just been slapped.

The three broken syllables are enough to shake Sherlock out of his stupor. He quickly turns on his heels and flees from the room; his bedroom door closes violently, seconds later.

When his attention returns to the elder Holmes, the ginger-haired man seems to have collected himself a little, but he is still carefully avoiding meeting the doctor's gaze.

John knows better than to scold Mycroft for his impulsive gesture. God knows, he's fought that same urge more than once himself, when Sherlock was been really insufferable. And it's evident that the man regretted his action immediately.

"Go and apologize," John says instead.

Mycroft gazes up to him at that, looking much younger and vulnerable than the blonde has ever seen him. His blue eyes quickly flicker to the right, to the corridor which could take him to his brother's room.

"It happens, Mycroft. Just go and tell him that you're sorry," the shorter man offers and the eldest Holmes almost follows his advice. Almost.

"I should go," he says instead, his voice back to something close to its usual tone. He reclaims his umbrella and turns to the door, walking away feeling every bit a coward.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he tells John as parting words, before seeing himself out.

Once alone in the room, the former soldier lets out a long sigh, shaking his head. He wonders if he will ever understand the Holmes brother's curious bond. Suddenly, his own troubled relationship with Harry seems so much simpler.

He is sitting at the desk, updating his blog, when he hears Sherlock's bedroom door open. He listens to the other man trailing down the corridor and then hears the bathroom door close. The sounds of the running shower quickly fill the flat and John continues typing up his 'New Arsène Case' that he hasn't yet had a chance to upload on his blog.

o0o

When Sherlock enters the living a while later, with damp curls and dressed in a fresh pair of dark pants and purple shirt, Watson is waiting in his chair with two cups of tea and the rest of Mrs Hudson's cookies. Mycroft is nowhere to be seen anymore, the brunette notices. _Good riddance,_ he thinks.

"Feeling better?" John asks simply before raising his cup to blow at the steam from over the rim.

Sherlock remains silent and stands hesitantly next to his own chair. He seems to debate whether he should sit down or not. The sandy-haired man continues to quietly blow over the rim of his cup, he's a patient man.

The young detective finally sits down and grabs his own beverage. He takes a sip, content to notice the tea is made exactly the way he likes it. Both men drink in companionable silence for a while.

"I'm your friend, you know," John finally says, purposefully keeping his voice subdued. Sherlock's eyes slowly look up at that but he's careful not to meet his friend's gaze directly. He fixes a point above the other's left shoulder.

"I know," he replies eventually, a while later. His voice is empty of emotions.

"There is something-" the blogger hesitates on the word to use "-troubling you," he states, making sure not to sound reproachful. "Is there something I can do to help?" he asks with genuine concern.

Holmes' eyes finally sought his at that. He gauges him, John understands; calculates and tries to determine what the doctor's true motives are.

"I just want to help," he adds, willing his friend to believe him. "I'm worried for you."

Sherlock quickly stands up and moves to the coffee table. He returns a few seconds later with the Millagan family photograph in his hand. He sits back down and holds out the frame for John to take.

"What do you see?" he asks.

The doctor is surprised at the shift of conversation but he grabs the image nonetheless, looking at it one more time. He's watched it several times already. It's a classical family memento. He owns a few similar portraits of the Watson clan. He tries to look at it the way Sherlock would, tries to find details that he might have previously overlooked.

"Taken by a professional photographer, the mother is wearing expensive jewellery and-"

"No, John," the detective interrupts him brusquely. "Tell me what _you_ see," he requests again.

"I see a family, Sherlock," he replies simply. "The son is sitting in his best clothes; the mother is clearly out of her comfort zone but trying hard to look good; the father is standing proud."

"Is that all you see?" Sherlock questions when his friend falls silent. His tone is not expectant as it usually would. If anything, he sounds a bit disappointed.

"What do _you_ see?" John asks him, raising his eyes again. The query seems to make his friend uncomfortable; he draws up his knees, in an unusual display of insecurity.

"I don't know," he says at length. "I could tell you dozens of things about this portrait, but none of them explain what I-" he trails off biting his lower lip to stop himself from speaking further. "What I feel when I look at it," he finishes finally, sounding reluctant to share his conflicted thoughts aloud.

John gazes back down at the image in his hand again. It doesn't stir up any unusual feelings in him. Frowning a little, he searches for Sherlock's gaze again.

"Looking at it makes me uncomfortable, uneasy," the younger man finally admits. "I don't know why but there is something... wrong, with this picture."

They remain silent, after Sherlock's admission and the sandy-haired man eyes the image again. It doesn't make sense. The picture is not enough to help him understand why his friend's behaviour has been so odd, as of late.

"There's something else, isn't it?" John asks when the silence stretches too much.

If possible, the question makes his flatmate even more uneasy. Pale eyes trade around the flat, even quicker than before. The detective is desperately looking for something, anything, to get himself out of this conversation he really doesn't want to have.

"Sherlock?" John asks again, gently prompting him to reply.

The young man can feel the kindness in his tone. _John really cares,_ he reminds himself and that's enough to untie his tongue.

He starts to speak and the other man listens intently. Sherlock recounts each of his nightmares. He describes how they get more detailed every time but still not detailed enough for him to make sense of them. He tells John how frighten he feels when he enters the bright room at the end of the corridor; how he cannot make himself look at anything else than the bookshelves and the table, which always harbours this _very same_ picture.

He falls silent at the end of his tale, eyes downcast and suddenly feeling achingly tired. He's afraid to look up and see a mocking smile on John's lips or pity in his gaze.

"Sherlock, look at me," John demands in a kind voice, leaning forward a little.

The younger man refuses, shaking his head 'No' and John asks again. Sherlock finally complies, bracing himself for what he will find in his friend's face. The pity and the disgust he is expecting are absent; he only sees concern and worry in John's familiar and friendly features.

"It's okay to have nightmares, you know," The blonde tells him, once he has all his attention. "Everyone does; it's only human, Sherlock," he pauses to let the thought sink in. "It doesn't make me think any less of you."

He waits for the detective to acknowledge his words and silently wills him to see the truth within them. He only continues speaking when the young man gives him a curt nod of acceptance, with his chin.

"Nightmares are often your subconscious trying to tell you something. This case, it clearly has stirred up something within you," he explains as patiently as he can. "You're frustrated because of the case and you're frustrated because you don't understand what your mind is trying to tell you."

"It's _my_ mind," Sherlock says finally, his naturally petulant side making its reappearance, although slightly subdued. "_I_ should understand what it's trying to say." John smiles a little at that.

"You understand the facts and the logic of it, Sherlock," the doctor says and his friend narrows his eyes slightly at his reply. "But I'm sure you're holding the associated emotions away at arms length, willing them to just disappear."

The detective's mouth contorts bitterly at his words and John knows he's right.

"It's part of you, Sherlock. You can fight them all you want, pretend they don't exist or that you don't care. You can try to be as high and as functioning a sociopath you want: they won't disappear."

"Soon or later, you're going to have to face what it is you're trying so desperately to repress," he tells him finally before sitting up. He knows there isn't more he can do at the moment. Sherlock is the one with all the cards in his hands.

He has seen his flatmate change so much already, since he first met him. The young man is slowly opening himself up to those around him. He's starting to learn the meaning of words like 'trust' and 'friend'. Pushing him too hard would only shatter what little John has managed to build so far. He thinks back on his friend's reaction to Mycroft's words; Sherlock is so unused to have people really care about him, he isn't even able to recognise it in his own brother.

John takes a step towards his room, stopping by Sherlock and letting his left hand come up to his shoulder an instant. He squeezes gently, a silent reminder that the young man is not alone and that he does have a friend. Then he leaves the room altogether, climbing up to his bedroom.

Sherlock stays silent; weighting carefully his flatmate's words. In the end, he unfurls himself from the chair and moves up to go stand in front of the window. John's words are still ringing in his ears. He closes his eyes and moves forward until his brow rests against the cool window. The cold is quick to sweep through his skin and it soothes him. He's tired; he is _so _damn tired.

He makes up his mind in the end. He knows he cannot continue running. It's not just his head that's hurting now, his whole body feels sick and he knows he cannot keep this charade up much longer. He needs to calm down and he needs to sleep. He turns back and looks at the couch apprehensively knowing he doesn't have a choice anymore.

He crosses the room slowly and sits down. His eyes linger over the work surface and stop on the familiar photograph which is again resting on the table. He closes his eyes and lies down, forcing himself to relax as he lets sleep overtake him.

o0o

This time, he isn't surprised when he opens up his eyes to a familiar dark corridor. He doesn't fight it when his feet start taking him forward, he walks along willingly.

His feet pad the carpet silently: porcelain-white toes on crimson red tendrils. It's the same deep red that adorns the background of the Holmes family crest, he recognizes. And he knows that's the very reason why his ancestors chose this specific colour to cover all the corridors of the Holmes Manor.

He pushes open the door to his father's study and enters. His eyes settle at once on the bookshelves with the entirety of the British law on the first two rows. Next to it, there is a small table adorned with crystal decanters that are filled with the finest and most expensive bourbon and whiskey. Next to those stands a framed family portrait. Sherlock grabs it - his hand is absolutely steady - and he looks at the picture that he now remembers perfectly.

It's a portrait of the Holmes family. He is five years old and Mycroft barely twelve in the photograph. They're both wearing their best clothes - chosen especially by mummy for the occasion - and sitting on two wooden stools, next to each other. Mycroft is standing with a straight back and he looks right ahead of him. Sherlock's position is not so much controlled. He is slightly turned towards his brother and he has his left arm around his sibling's waist. Their parents are standing behind them. Their father tall and proud, with both hands on Mycroft's shoulders; his wife by his side, ever gorgeous and smiling warmly. But there's something wrong with the picture, Sherlock knows. _It lies._

He remembers the day it was taken. Mycroft wasn't standing so strangely at first. It's only when their father gripped his shoulders tightly that he tensed and straightened up, his face losing at once the smile it bore. Sherlock felt it that day, a slight uneasiness emanating from him and that is why he reached out to his brother, reassuringly holding onto him. Their mother also noticed and she understands why, and this is the very reason why there is an underlying sadness in her blue gaze that her fake smile can't completely hide.

Sherlock rests the picture back on the table - face down - before straightening his back up and looking to the other side of the room. He's momentarily blinded by the harsh summer-light that filters through the large bay windows behind his father's desk. He blinks a few times and the brightness diminishes. His father's here, standing on the left side of his desk: dark suit, for a dark mood. He's wearing a cold mask on his face but his eyes are burning. He's angry, furious even. Mycroft, who is standing next to him, knows that too. He knows what's coming and he tries to brace himself for it. Thirteen years old, still a tender age. Not a man yet, although he has already seen and endured way too much, for someone so young. He lifts his chin in defiance; unwilling to appear weak in front of his father. The slap is sharp and the sound resounds in the silence. His lower lip breaks and a fine line of red quickly trails down his chin. Father put all of his strength in the blow and Mycroft recoils from the force of it, an unwanted moan escaping his lips.

_'Mye?'_ Sherlock hears himself say in the voice of a six years old, scared little boy. His brother immediately turns to him at that. Blue eyes - filled with pain and horror - quickly lock with his. He's surprised, the detective can tell. The younger boy was not supposed to see this; he was not supposed to ever know. Mycroft is quick to react, he takes three steps to his right and seconds later he has his brother's hand in his, leading him away from the study and the fury of their father.

Sherlock wakes up with his face pressed against a woollen-jumper-clad shoulder and strong woollen-jumper-clad arms holding him tightly. He can hear someone crying: sobs echoing in the silence of the flat, pants of breaths coming in too short as if there isn't enough oxygen in the room. It takes him a few minutes to realise he's the one crying. He closes his eyes tightly and fights hard to try and regain some control.

"Sherlock?" John asks as he perceives his friend moving against his chest. He feels something akin to a nod against his shoulder and he's relieved to realise the younger man is finally back with him.

He ran down the stairs at his flatmate's screams of anguish and found him in the throes of a nightmare, curled up on the sofa with his brother's name plaintively escaping his lips.

"It's alright now," he says soothingly. "It's over Sherlock, you're safe."

It takes a few more minutes for the tears to stop and Sherlock finally, almost reluctantly, untangles his limbs from John's protective embrace. He pulls himself together and sits on the sofa, planting both feet firmly on the lino. John stays where he is, careful not to make any sudden movement, his right knee still brushing against Sherlock's thigh, the last point of contact between the two friends.

The detective reaches forward eventually. He grabs the frame on the table and looks at it, with disgust.

"It's a lie," he says, his voice burning with its icyness. "_It's all a lie._"

o0o

John isn't sure what to expect. To be honest, he's even a little bit afraid of what might happen next. He texts Lestrade to let him know they are on their way to the Millagans' and hopes, against all odds, that the DI will make it to West London before they do.

He gives a look at Sherlock who is sitting next to him in the cab. He hasn't said a word since he gave the address to the driver. His face is a blank frozen mask entirely devoid of emotions. The doctor is more than a little perplexed. One minute his friend is a sobbing mess on the sofa and the next he is donning his coat, standing tall with his usual grandeur and impressive stance. _Hurry up Lestrade_, is all he can think of at this point.

They reach their destination minutes later and predictably Scotland Yard is nowhere to be seen. Holmes knocks on the door imperiously and Mrs Millagan quickly comes to open. She doesn't look much better than the last time they have seen her. Her eyes are still red and puffy and she looks like she might shatter any minute. Sherlock strides past her and enters the flat without being given permission. The poor woman lets out a surprised cry at that.

"Sorry Mrs Millagan," John quickly mutters, following his friend inside. He finds him in the living, facing a clearly ticked off Mr Millagan.

"What's the meaning of this?" the man half yells, standing up. He's as tall as the detective, John notices and he undoubtedly possesses acute fighting knowledge, given his extensive military background. If Sherlock doesn't take it down a notch, this is going to end up messy, he realises.

"I demand that you leave this house right now!" the man barks, clearly used to giving orders.

"Or what?" the brunette taunts. "Or you're going to make me leave. Use your fists and your feet for it, is that it?" his voice has taken that hard and cold tone again and John flinches from it.

"You're going to break my neck to stop me from talking, like you did with Jackson Rattiger and Jennifer Staurer?" the detective questions. "Tell me, what were their crimes? Did they see or hear something they weren't supposed to? A bruise on your son's body inadvertently revealed during a gymnastic class. An over curious postwoman who catches a glimpse of something she isn't supposed to see, when she brings you a parcel."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mr Millagan storms. "Who do you think you are, coming to my house and making such accusations?" his right hand curls into a fist and John takes another step forward, lining himself with Sherlock, to even the odds. The older man seems to reconsider his course of action and he stills himself; his fist doesn't loosen.

"Get out of here this instant or I will have you arrested!" he barks the command again.

"You want to know who _I_ am?" Sherlock asks, unmoving, his tone icy cold. "I'm a man who knows the likes of you." His voice burns like only ice does, as he continues. "I know you. You use your strength to control those around you. You moulded your son with punches and kicks. You shaped his mind with cruel words and threats. You tortured and you hurt until you erased the last bit of innocence and free will; until he turned into the obedient and broken creature you wanted him to be."

John is frozen by his words, his own breath caught in his throat. He understands. In one achingly, painfully, long second, he understands. He will never have to ask Sherlock or Mycroft what their childhood was like or why it is they have never done Easter as children. Now he knows and his heart cries for them.

Flashes of red and blue soon reverberates inside the house casting through the windows and the curtains and it's all over in a matter of minutes. Lestrade walks in with his gun drawn out because Watson's text worried him and he too isn't sure what to expect from this encounter.

"He did it," John tells him instantly, pointing at Mr Millagan who is clearly trying to resist an impulse to fight or flight. But Lestrade's weapon draws up on him and Donovan also makes an appearance and he's outgunned and outnumbered so he surrenders. The Sergeant cuffs him promptly and she doesn't bother hiding her surprise as she escorts him back outside. Mrs Millagan remains silent. She's shaking like a leaf caught in a storm, standing in the corner of the room with her back pressed against the wall as if she is trying to melt and become a part of the hideous floral wallpaper.

Lestrade holsters his weapon and looks at the shorter man inquiringly. It's clear that he feels like he has missed a chapter or two and he's expecting a thorough summary of what has just happened. John's about to start explaining when Sherlock quickly turns on his heels and all but runs outside. The doctor is torn.

"We'll drop by the Yard tomorrow," he finally decides to tell Lestrade. The DI doesn't look pleased but quite frankly, in that moment, John doesn't give a damn.

He storms outside and quickly looks left and right, looking for his flatmate.

"He went that way," Sally's voice interrupts him. He turns back to her and notices she's closing the backdoor of the car. Mr Millagan is sitting on the backseat, looking up at her furiously through the glass window. The young woman has her left arm stretched out and the former soldier quickly sets off in the direction she's pointing at.

He finds Sherlock a few feet further up, in the neighbours' driveway, sitting in the dirt. He has both feet planted in the grass, knees bent and long arms hooked around them.

Watson squats down next to his legs.

"You alright?" he asks eventually and he gets a small affirmative headshake in response. He doesn't buy it for a second.

John feels at a loss for what to say. What could one possibly say in a situation like this? He knows there are no words. Nothing is strong enough to erase the pain and destroy the memories. However, he knows actions speak louder than words and so he hooks his left hand in one of Sherlock's and he holds on tightly. Glancing at his friend, he isn't surprised to see a telltale glisten in a trail down the high cheekbone.

He hears Lestrade's car depart a while later. His knees are starting to ache because of the unusual and uncomfortable position and the cold April wind that sweeps though the night is chilling him to the bone, but he doesn't move. _Nothing_ could make him move from his friend's side, not even the end of the world.

"Thank you," Sherlock finally murmurs looking up at him, their eyes meeting for the first time since he woke up from his nightmare. He gives him a small smile. It's hesitant and uncertain but it's also the most honest smile John has ever seen from him.

"I'm your friend," the sandy-haired man replies. "I'm not going anywhere and I will never hurt you."

"Is that a promise or a threat?" the younger man questions and the blogger is pleased to see the inquisitive personality returning.

"Neither one," he tells him with a soft smile of his own. "It's your favourite thing: a fact. Not a promise to break, not a threat to hold over your head. Just... a fact."

**TBC.**


	8. Chapter 7

_This is the last chapter, my lovelies. Next week, I will post the epilogue and then 'Behind Closed Doors' will truly be over (but don't worry, I've got the next fic cooking up in the stove already)._

_I am still beta-less at the moment so, again, all the mistakes within those lines are solely mine. Deepest apologies :)_

* * *

**Behind Closed Doors**

CHAPTER 7.

Mr Millagan gets quite a public bashing in the press. He makes front page for several days, as the story unfolds within the inked lines. Reports and scoops keep pouring in; experts and behavioural specialists all seem eager to give in their two cents.

Everyday, John throws the paper in the bin, before Sherlock has a chance to set his eyes on it. He doesn't want his detective friend to read the pseudo-scientific explanations of this horrible man's actions. How could these so-called _experts_ honestly blame the army for having 'disturbed his notion of right and wrong'? And the mere suggestion that his crimes are the result of a 'lack of enough Christian representation in our modern society' is revolting to John. Mr Millagan is a total whack-job it's all he is. He doesn't have any excuses, and neither does Sherlock's late father.

The two flatmate haven't really talked about _that_ side of the story yet. After Millagan's arrest, they took a cab home and the younger man silently went to bed. John stayed in the living room all night, just in case, but the detective only woke up when the sun started to rise on a new day. Their normal life had resumed then. As promised, the two stopped by New Scotland Yard to give their statements and fill in the blanks. Lestrade told them Millagan confessed during the night to having accidently killed his own son. The other two victims were - as the detective had guessed - both a tentative to mislead the police and the silencing of potential witnesses.

As he finishes his blog about the "Ravenscourt Killer Case" John wonders if he should broach up the subject of Sherlock's traumatic childhood with his friend. The detective had clearly deleted all these events from his mind and lived entire years without remembering what had happened to him. It took a frustrating case and an unlikely photograph to bring it all back.

He's still deep in thoughts when his flatmate enters the kitchen. He opens the freezer and places inside a bloody severed foot.

John's about to complain about body parts where one would normally store food but what comes out of his mouth is: "Don't delete it again."

The taller man closes the fridge slowly and turns back to look at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What happened to you, Sherlock," John clarifies. "I know you've deleted it once. Please don't delete it again."

"Why would I want to remember?" the young man questions, leaning back against the closed fridge; hands in his pockets and his expression somewhat forlorn.

"I know it hurts and it's easier to forget, but it's a part of who you are," his friend patiently tries to explain.

"No matter what your father did to you or what he tried to make you into, you became your own man, Sherlock. You made your own choices and you're neither weak, nor broken. You're brilliant and a good person." John swallows thickly, feeling slightly uncomfortable. These words are hard for him to say and he has no doubts they must be equally hard to hear. Sherlock keeps his eyes downcast, unable to truly face his friend.

"What your father did to you was wrong," the blogger continues, "but it played a part in making you who you are now. You thrived despite what happened; you can be proud of that. It's not something you should forget."

Silence falls on the pair of them when John finishes. The fingers of the brunette's left hand twitch. He's fighting hard an impulse to just bolt out of the room and go elsewhere, _anywhere,_ where he won't have to face these recollections he's kept hidden for so long. John remains seated at the table, concern written over each line of his face.

"He passed away, when I was thirteen. He never got a chance to... finish," Sherlock eventually admits, in a quiet voice. He seems to debate whether he should continue or not. John remains silent as he waits for his friend to find the right words to express how he feels.

"He hurt Mycroft more than he ever hurt me," he finally speaks up again. "For the first six years, I didn't even know what was going on. Mycroft always made sure I was nowhere near our father when it got _dangerous_. He'd tell me to go play in the garden or to go to my room."

"He was really kind to me, my brother, when we were little," he continues. His blue-grey eyes take on a misty colour, like a foggy pond on a cold autumn day. A small, soft, smile hesitantly tugs at his lips. "He protected me for as long as he could. It wasn't his fault I went into the study when I wasn't supposed to and eventually found out."

"When I was eleven, our father sent him to university and Mycroft left me. I hated him for it," Sherlock recounts and the smile disappears. Deep inside, he feels the white hot burn of shame, as he remembers the harsh words he said that day. He threw the most hurting of insults at his brother that afternoon; accusing him of being like their father.

John hesitates an instant to ask him if his older sibling also deleted what happened from his mind. Then he remembers Mycroft's haunted expression after he physically assaulted his brother last week. It was probably the first time the eldest had laid a hand on his younger sibling and it had nearly broken him. As he remembers the pain he saw in his blue eyes, John knows with certainty that Mycroft remembers absolutely everything.

"He cares about you, Sherlock," the blonde tells him, sitting up and coming to stand in front of his flatmate. "He doesn't really know how to show it," he starts with a hint of a smile in his voice, "and most of the time your attitude's really not helping," he adds with a pointed look, "but he loves you very much."

Sherlock swallows thickly at that. He doesn't know what to reply; he doesn't have the right words, so he remains silent.

o0o

In the afternoon, the detective decides to tend to his violin. He's treated the instrument rather poorly recently. The long and hard sessions of Mendelssohn haven't left only his fingers hurting. There's build up of dark rosin on some of the strings and the varnish could do with a good cleaning. He shuffles through a cupboard and takes out a small shoebox that contains cleaning products and micro-fibre cloth.

He sits down in his chair with the instrument carefully balanced on his knee and opens the box. He reaches inside for the cloth and finds, amongst the products, a chocolate egg wrapped in pink and yellow. He stares at it, for a grand total of three seconds, before deciding what to do with it.

John is sitting at the desk, typing quietly on his computer. He is wholly absorbed by the text in front of him when something un-expectantly hits him in the forehead, startling him, before coming to a stop on the keyboard. The doctor stifles a laugh, when he realises what has assaulted him, and Sherlock deduces he was right in thinking that John was the one leaving chocolate items all over the place.

The doctor grabs the egg between two deft fingers and tosses it back at the consulting detective.

"Happy Easter," he tells him with a smile, when Sherlock frowns at him in confusion.

"It started out as a sacred Christian celebration but now it's become more of a commercial feast that makes chocolate manufacturers happy," John explains. "Anyways, it's sort of a tradition to do an 'Easter Egg Hunt' on that day. Parents usually hide chocolate eggs and such, all over the house or the garden, for the kids to find."

Frowning a little, Sherlock realises he's never heard of Easter before. Or if he has, he's deleted it. It seems a strange concept, hiding food like that. What if it isn't found and it rots?

"Did you do that as a child?" he questions, genuinely curious.

"Yes, and I was really good at finding them. I always got more than Harry but then she would steal mine," the blogger reminisces with fondness.

"I'm not a child anymore," the brunette tells him then, looking at the egg in his hand with something akin to contempt.

"Yeah, I know Sherlock. Just thought it might be something fun to do, it's all," he tries to explain, feeling like maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. "I thought you might have liked the thrill of the search and it could have been a good diversion from what was supposed to be a very boring weekend."

"Fine," Sherlock tells him finally, after pondering the idea for an instant. "We can do Easter next year."

"Really?" John asks, a little incredulous.

"Yes, but next year: do it properly." The doctor lifts up both eyebrows at that, wondering what he's just signed himself up for.

"You need to tell me in advance exactly how many eggs you have hidden, so I know when I'm done. And mark them with my initials or something, so I can be sure I got the right ones. And don't hide them only in the flat: that would be too easy," the young man rattles on, thinking this might actually serve to alleviate some of the in-between cases boredom.

John shakes his head with fondness. _Trust Sherlock Holmes to come up with a list of rules on how to celebrate Easter._

When dusk starts to settle on London, the detective excuses himself and leaves the flat. The doctor doesn't need to ask him where he's going. With one look at the young man's hesitant expression, he knows.

o0o

Night has steadily fallen, when Mycroft finally decides to call it a day and go home. He's been pushing himself more than usual lately; bothering himself with some matters that didn't really require his attention and preparing reports no-one has asked him to do. He loves his job: it keeps his mind occupied and stops it from dwelling on other, less pleasant things.

As he enters his flat, he instantly knows he's not alone. The front door is unlocked (that's his first clue); there's a long Belstaff coat hung haphazardly on the hallway rack and he can hear his brother's feet padding about - he frowns - his bedroom.

He shrugs off his coat and hangs it neatly on a hanger then he takes a minute to do the same with his brother's. He's stalling, he knows, but he isn't sure what Sherlock could possibly want from him, after their last encounter. A sigh passes his lips at the thought. He still regrets his impulsive gesture and he hasn't forgotten Sherlock's harsh words either. He takes a deep breath and braces himself, taking a step forward.

He finds his younger sibling in the living room, standing in front of a window with his back towards the entrance door.

"Sherlock," he says simply in a monotone, as a way to make his presence known.

"Mycroft." The answer isn't long to come and it's delivered in a similar tone.

The elder Holmes takes off his suit jacket and he drapes it carefully on the back of the sofa. Then, he removes his tie, with slow and precise movements, before undoing the first two buttons of his white shirt. He knows he's stalling again, but he cannot help it. His younger brother seems content to continue watching the cold night through the transparent glass.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft says finally, standing by the sofa, a few feet behind the other man. His tone is reminiscent of the one he used the last time he uttered this apology.

"What have you to be sorry for?" his brother asks in a quiet voice, whilst still gazing outside. "What I said to you was cruel. I-" he tilts his head slightly to the side "-_had it coming,_ as some would say."

"That's no excuse," Mycroft corrects. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Why?" Sherlock questions, quicksilver eyes still lost on the outside. "Why shouldn't you have done that?" he clarifies, when no answer is forthcoming.

Mycroft swallows thickly, as his throat constricts painfully. He knows _why_ but he cannot bring himself to say it. He knows who used to slap and punch and kick; he remembers everything but Sherlock doesn't. And he doesn't want him to remember, _never_! He envies his brother's ability to delete everything he doesn't like. The elder Holmes often wishes he could forget what happened as well. If he could, he'd get rid of that memory of Sherlock telling him he is like their father as well.

Yes, Mycroft is happy to know Sherlock was able to forget, even if all the happy memories of moments shared together have disappeared along with the bad ones. It's a price he's willing to pay.

He is so lost in thoughts, he doesn't hear his brother turn his back to the window. He is surprised to meet his mercury gaze when he finally looks up a while later.

"I'm sorry, Mye," Sherlock tells him then. A gasp of surprise passes through the elder's lips at the old nickname he hasn't heard in nearly twenty years.

"I was wrong," the detective admits, lowering his gaze again. "You always cared."

"Sherlock," Mycroft manages brokenly. He wishes he could say more, but it's the only word that makes it past the lump in his throat.

"And I'm so, very, sorry for what I said that day," the youngest continues, forcing himself to raise his chin again and look his brother in the eye. "You're not like him. You never were," he finishes with a clipped tone and repressed tears in his eyes.

Mycroft has to look away at that. It's all too much for him; words he thought he would never hear, an apology he isn't even sure he has earned. He's inches away from breaking down completely, he knows and it takes all of his will-power to keep the tears at bay. He isn't strong enough to stop himself from reaching out for his brother, though, and his left hand soon closes around a fistful of the front of his brother's dark purple shirt. Sherlock doesn't move or say anything and Mycroft cannot bring himself to let go. He stands still, half turned away; his head angled to his right, eyes directed towards the kitchen entrance without seeing it.

After a few minutes of complete stillness, a hesitant hand slowly comes up to cover his own. He remains motionless and Sherlock's warm grasp tightens around his fingers and settles there. A few tears make it past his eyelashes then and he lets them fall along his cheeks, still resolutely looking away.

They remain unmoving for a long time, both lost inside their own grief, but they don't let go of each other. This brotherly connection is like an anchor stopping them from drowning in their respective sorrow. Finally, it's Sherlock who is the first to move. He carefully prides his sibling's fingers free of his shirt but he doesn't let go of his hand. He keeps holding it firmly and gently tugs on it until Mycroft turns back to face him.

"I won't forget again," he promises his brother in a whisper and the elder gives him a small, hopeful, smile and a nod at that.

Mycroft is still incapable of speaking up. He feels awfully tired suddenly, the weight of this past week's anguish, the extra-long hours at work and tonight's cathartic release finally taking its toll on him. He thinks he should sit down, maybe even eat something, but he cannot bring himself to let go of Sherlock's hand. His brother seems to perceive his fatigue because suddenly his left hand comes up to his neck to gently push his head down on his bony shoulder. Mycroft lets himself being manoeuvred and closes his aching eyes with relief when his temple hits the cool silky material. The gesture is awfully intimate; it's not quite a hug but it's close enough. He can faintly hear Sherlock's heart beat against his ear and, for the first time in many years, he can finally put his worried mind to rest, knowing with an absolute certainty that the young man is safe.

He's almost fallen asleep on his feet, when Sherlock gives their joint hands a stronger-yet-still-gentle squeeze and he blinks his eyes open. He moves his head away and gives his brother a bit of a rueful smile. "Sorry," he whispers.

"It's alright," Sherlock assures him with a soft smile of his own. Then he seems to remember something and he quickly reaches in his pocket to grab a small object. Mycroft hasn't got the time to find out what it is, before his brother's fist closes around it again. He then brings up their joint hands to his chest's level and forces Mycroft to open his, palm up. With his left hand, he places a small chocolate egg on the outstretched palm.

"Happy Easter, brother-dear," he says with a fond smile and a strange twinkle of mischief in his eye.

Sherlock leaves shortly afterwards. Mycroft asks him to pass along his regards to John and he tells him he'll try to stop by Baker Street later during the week, if he has the time. Sherlock tells him to phone first because odds are high he could be busy elsewhere solving crimes and it's stupid to visit an empty flat.

They still have a lot to discuss and the large breach in their relationship is far from being mended but, for the first time in years, it feels like there's a chance for things to get better between them. With a little bit of effort from the both of them, they could truly be brothers again.

When he goes to have a shower later that night, Mycroft finds a little red egg marked 'MH' in the wire soap dish. He laughs, unwrapping it and swallowing it down, before letting the water cascade down on his tensed shoulders. A little while later, he finds another one in his Tea box and he finally understands what that twinkle of mischief meant and why his brother had been in his bedroom when he first entered the flat.

He decides that his tea can wait and he starts to happily open each cabinet, to carefully look into each can and box, and to peer in each corner of his flat in search of more little 'MH' eggs.

**TBC.**

* * *

_For updates and more, you can follow me on twitter (address on my profile page)._


	9. Epilogue

_(Dear reader, please pretend Reichenbach never existed. Thank you kindly.)_

* * *

**Behind Closed Doors**

EPILOGUE.

John activates 'Mission: Easter' on Saturday, March 30th 2013 at 8:30 sharp. Firstly, he goes down to the Tesco and buys two large plastic bags filled with multicoloured chocolate eggs. Then he stops at a nearby cafe and takes out his sharpie.

The waitress unsurprisingly gives him an odd look, when she comes to serve him his drink. There's a little mount of chocolate eggs on her table and her customer is patiently writing down sets of initials on each little item. _Weirdo_, she thinks, but she wisely chooses to refrain from commenting aloud. It wouldn't have mattered; John is all but ready to explain to her that, for him, Easter is a very serious matter. There are rules to be followed, precise steps to be taken. He is doing this for his friends and, by god, he is going to do it right.

Once John is done with his branding, he forces all the eggs back into the packages and takes out of his pocket the list of places he needs to go to next. It's going to cost him a little fortune in cab fares, he knows, but this is a price he will gladly pay.

Firstly, he takes off to Whitehall and meets up with Anthea, in an alley near Mycroft's office. The young brunette doesn't have much time and John quickly drops a fistful of eggs into her designer leather bag. The PA knows she has to be quick and discreet, if she doesn't want to arouse her boss's suspicion. She rapidly trots back inside – not minding that it hurt her feet to be running so fast in heels – praying that her little getaway will go unnoticed and that Mr Holmes will not find out what they are up to.

_Oh yes,_ the doctor thinks, looking at the woman disappearing inside the intimidating building_, Easter is a very serious matter, indeed!_

o0o

Sherlock isn't the only one who can be smart and cunning; John has moments of his own. The former army soldier had an entire year to plan this event and he is not alone with it. The blogger has discreetly enrolled Lestrade, Molly and Anthea to help him. They all have their sets of instruction and, within the hour, they will all have the same amount of chocolate eggs to scatter all around town. As a certain detective would say, 'The game is on'.

While Mrs Hudson keeps Sherlock company - with explicit instructions not to let him get out of the flat, under any circumstance - John meets with the rest of his partners-in-crime at Barts. He empties his load of eggs on one of the autopsy table and divides them between Lestrade, Molly and himself. They review the strategic plan one more time and 'Mission: Easter' is officially declared a go.

Molly starts with the lab. The first hideouts are obvious: inside a cupboard, beneath an upturned bowl, at the back of a drawer. Then she gets a little bit more creative. She opens the skull of one of their educational skeletons and places an 'MH' egg inside before screwing it back closed, thinking Sherlock might appreciate the joke (everyone knows the elder Holmes often has chocolate on his mind).

Then she leaves the morgue altogether. She has prepared her own list of locations and she took the afternoon off from work, especially for the occasion. She comes back to the morgue in the evening, exhausted but happy. The last 'SH' egg, she blushingly places it inside her white coat's breast pocket, wondering if the detective will get _that_ message.

Lestrade is forced to hide all of his Easter token inside New Scotland Yard. He really wishes he could put up more of a challenge for the Holmes brothers, but he is currently juggling with two cases (not challenging enough for Sherlock to want to take them, but intricate enough to give _him_ one hell of a headache) and he can't spare the time.

The DI still gets creative in his own way and the Yard is a very large building after all. He receives more than a few strange looks from his colleagues as they watch him hiding chocolate eggs all over the place with a boyish smile on his face. The smile turns slightly evil as he gives the last two 'SH' eggs to Donovan and Anderson, with the specific instruction not to give them up, unless the detective says 'please'. _Well,_ he thinks, _John never said a little payback was forbidden_.

He goes back to his desk when he's done, happy to finally be allowed to sit down after a good fifty minutes of running up and down all the corridors. When he reaches for his pen, he notices he's forgotten one of the eggs meant for Mycroft. Not knowing what to do with it, he puts it in his breast pocket then buries his nose in a dossier.

John, is a soldier on a mission. He goes all over town, methodically leaving behind coloured eggs in highly strategic locations. He is very thorough; years of military training put to good use. He previously did a full reconnaissance and he has the entire layout mapped out in his head, like a battle plan. He gets more than a few arched eyebrows and mocking smiles along the way, but he raises his chin proudly and marches on; not minding a bit, because nothing can stop him now.

Angelo's, the Chinese where he and Sherlock often stop at, the Diogenes club (and boy does he get few half-offended half-horrified frowns and contemptuous twitch of eyebrows in there, but _eh, no one complained aloud!_), a few empty warehouses which are amongst Mycroft's list of favourite places to take kidnapped-former-military-doctors-for–friendly-chats to, the dark alleys where his mad flatmate likes to meet with members of his shady network,... no place is spared by John's unstoppable Easter Spirit.

The soldier is tired and worn out, when he finally gets back to Baker Street as the night falls. He leaves half a dozen eggs behind Mrs Hudson's door before taking the stairs slowly. Sherlock's playing a cheerful melody on his violin, when he arrives, and their landlady is knitting happily in one of their chairs.

"Close your eyes," John instructs loudly, with only his head peering through the entrance door. The musician gives him an odd look but he complies nonetheless. He knows the notes by heart anyway, so he doesn't need his eyes to play.

John promptly dashes through to the flat and runs straight to his bedroom. He removes his clothes quickly and changes, then he goes back down and tosses everything in the laundry machine before Sherlock has a chance to have a look at the mud on his shoes or the particles of whatever that might have gotten stuck on his pants' leg or the crumbs of god knows who's food that might have landed on his sleeve.

The brunette is done playing when his flatmate re-enters the living room. "Easter?" he asks with an hopeful and gleeful expression. His smile widens, when John nods 'Yes'.

Mrs Hudson soon departs, explaining she has a long overdue phone-call to make to her sister. She gives John what she thinks is a discreet wink at that. With one look at Sherlock, the doctor quickly understands that he noticed and that Mrs Hudson's flat will be the first place the young man raids, comes morning. _Never mind,_ the blonde thinks, _this is going to be a great day_.

Sherlock hasn't talked much with John about his childhood. The subject of his father hasn't been broached once since that day, a little less than a year ago, when his flatmate found out the truth. But occasionally now, his friend would share one of his happy memories of him and Mycroft growing up. When the duo took a case involving a boat that mysteriously sunk in the Thames, Sherlock told him of a time when he used to play pirates with his older brother. When one of their investigations took them to the zoo, his flatmate recounted an afternoon spent in the forest with his sibling, capturing bugs for their collection.

Things between Sherlock and Mycroft are still a little touch and go. Both men are ill-equipped to deal with situations that require any kind of emotional approach, but they are working on it: slowly and steadily. The elder Holmes stops by their flat more often now and the two brothers are finally able to talk to each other again. Their encounters are no-longer just a series of veiled insults or one-sided work-related requests. They finally manage to have real discussions.

The subjects are diverse. On bad days, they would discuss sometimes idle like the weather or trivial news; on better days, the topics would get more interesting. On such days, they'd discuss cases, exchange ideas and scheme. There is even that one time where Sherlock solved a case solely because of one of his brother's idea. Sure, there is still tension, between the two. Sherlock can't help but send the occasional jab hinting at his brother's weight problems and Mycroft easily retaliates with something addressing the perpetual mess in which his brother seems content to live. _Oh yes,_ John thinks happily, _the working on it... is working. _

The doctor is looking forward to the next day and he truly hopes Sherlock will enjoy running around town in his friend's hunt. He looks at him, as he cleans his violin before placing it carefully on a shelf, and he can already see the buzzing of excitement coursing within the young man's veins; same as when he's on a case. _Sherlock is also looking forward to it,_ he realises. And he hopes the detective will appreciate the final surprise he has for him.

o0o

On the morning of Sunday, March 31st 2013, John is woken up at 8 sharp by the loud banging of his flatmate's fist on his bedroom door. He gets up with a smile and puts some clothes on, before going out of his room. When he comes down, he finds the detective near the entrance door - coat, scarf and gloves on - bouncing from one foot to the other in anticipation.

"Morning, Sherlock," he tells him, still somewhat sleepily.

"Can I go now?" his friend all but whines. _Yes,_ John realizes, _this is really a kid going on an Easter Egg Hunt._

"No, we're still waiting on someone and I still need to give you the rules," the doctor explains as he goes to the kitchen to make himself tea.

"Who are we waiting for?" Sherlock questions seconds later, peering his head inside the kitchen. "I didn't know there was a need for a third entity. Does this game require some kind of a judge or a witness?" he enquires keenly, as if he is interrogating a suspect in one of their cases.

"No," John tells him fondly, pouring water in his cup. "But no game is fun when there is only one player."

His friend raises a surprised eyebrow at that. He wonders who his flatmate could have chosen to play against him. Someone with good detective skills, he surmises. He thinks of Lestrade; sincerely hopes it's not Donovan, or - god forbids - Anderson. Neither would present much of a challenge for him though.

The sound of feet coming up the stairs interrupts his train of thoughts and a surprised expression crosses his face as he recognises his brother's familiar gait. _John has invited Mycroft to play along,_ he deduces and without knowing why, he feels his lips begin to curve into a smile.

His friend leaves him alone in the kitchen, with his surprised thoughts, and goes to open the door, welcoming the newcomer in.

"Good morning, Mycroft," he greets the elder Holmes warmly, when he enters. "Glad you could come."

"I'm not really sure what I'm doing here," Sherlock's older brother says with a sour tone, somewhat reluctant to admit that - for once - there is something even _he_ doesn't know. "Anthea said it was most urgent that I come here and then she cleared my schedule for the whole day."

Sherlock walks back in the living with a smile and Mycroft's brow furrows even more. It is quite a sight to see the elder Holmes thoroughly perplexed, John finds.

"What day is it?" the blogger questions and Mycroft thinks what a stupid question this is. Yet, he indulges his host; his mother did, after all, teach him some manners.

"March 31st. Sunday," he replies in a monotone. John gives him an expectant look as if it isn't the answer he was waiting for. The ginger-haired man thinks a little longer and adds disdainfully, his noise crinkling slightly, "Easter." He's never really been fond of _that_ particular holiday. Too much chocolate lying around everywhere; it's always challenging for his resolve.

John smiles brightly at that and the shorter man's evident cheerfulness reminds him at once of his brother placing a chocolate egg in his palm, roughly a year ago. He looks up quickly at Sherlock, who is standing near the kitchen entrance with a grin.

"_Easter?_" he asks his sibling, voicing the word with interest this time. He hasn't forgotten the eggs hidden by his brother, all over his flat, last year. Sherlock nods happily at that and he finds it hard to fight the smile that attacks the corners of his own mouth in return.

"Alright," John interrupts. "Rules!"

The brothers turn their heads sharply at him, both pairs of blue eyes narrowing on him like hawks eyeing their prey and glinting in anticipation.

"Fifty eggs each, scattered all over London; none hidden inside the flat because that would be too easy. Yours are marked 'SH'," he tells his flatmate, who nods appraisingly. "Yours have your initials, Mycroft. You are not allowed to take an egg which isn't yours. If you do find one, you _have to_ put it back, okay?" He insists on that, fixing them sternly in turns, until both brothers nod in agreement. "The first one who comes back with all his eggs wins."

"What's the prize?" Mycroft asks at once, words flowing out quickly. John isn't even surprised to discover the eldest is the more competitive of the two.

"There's a surprise for the winner," the shorter man assures him with a smile. He has placed a special order in a nearby bakery just for the occasion. Well, _two orders_ actually, but there's no need to tell them that just yet.

"There's one more thing," John informs them in an even voice. "There's two ways to play this game. You can either go your separate ways, search alone and hope to be the first to get back here," he pauses and takes a breath before continuing, "or you can play together and help each other out."

The brothers both seem perplexed by the alternative and the doctor wishes they have done enough progress in their relationship to want to take the second option. He wants them to take this chance to finally do something normal, together.

"If you work together, you both get a surprise," he adds feeling Mycroft is going to question him about that.

The two Holmes keep their matching perplexed expressions for a moment, until the eldest finally averts his gaze to peer down absentmindedly at his umbrella; a sure way for him to avoid having to look at either one of the other men present in the flat. Sherlock gives John a doubtful and hesitant look, silently pleading him to tell him which one of the two options he should take. John remains mute and unhelpful; the decision is not his to make.

The detective knows if he plays alone, he will probably win; Mycroft is good but Sherlock knows John better and he calculates this will give him an edge. At the same time, the young man discovers a little part of him would be sad, if he were to end up having the prize when his brother got nothing. The thought perplexes him; not so long ago, he wouldn't have had to think twice about it.

Sherlock finally makes up his mind and crosses the living to get to the door. He stops on the threshold, an instant, to call out over his shoulder, "Well, what are you waiting for, Mycroft, we haven't got all day."

His brother dutifully follows him out, fighting off a tender smile. A second later, John can hear the detective telling his brother that they should start with Mrs Hudson's flat.

o0o

John gets updates from his accomplices throughout the day. The brothers seem to take the hunt in a methodical geographical order; starting with the closest places and expending their search clockwise.

The doctor leaves the flat mid-afternoon, whilst the Holmes's search the Yard, and goes to the bakery to retrieve his special order. It's a bit of a posh place and not a boutique he would usually go to because it's a little too expensive for him, but he thought he could make an exception just this once. Aside from the dozen different sorts of bread, they also make cakes and chocolates. There is a series of various chocolate bunnies, ducks and kittens in the window.

Lestrade phones a while later to let him know the brothers found all his eggs. The doctor chuckles, as the DI describes Sherlock's pinched expression when he was forced to ask Donovan and Anderson for their eggs. Anthea texts an update a while later, explaining how Mycroft had to be particularly creative when the Prime Minister asked why there was a red chocolate egg - marked with his initials - in one of his desk plants. This time, John laughs out loud.

When night finally starts to fall over London, ninety eight eggs have been found and John goes outside to sit on the entrance step of 221B Baker Street with number ninety nine and number one hundred in his hands.

It isn't long before the two Holmes arrive, walking next to each other. They appear from a perpendicular street and the blogger gathers the Chinese was their last stop. Sherlock says something then that makes his brother laugh, but they are still too far away for John to make out the words. _It doesn't matter,_ he thinks, _they're both smiling. _As far as _he_ is concerned 'Mission: Easter' was a complete success.

"Found them all?" he asks, when they're within hearing range.

"Of course," Sherlock says immediately. He's kind enough to leave the 'obviously' out, but his flatmate hears it in his tone nonetheless.

"All of them?" the doctor challenges.

"Minus the two which are hidden behind your back, _obviously_," he voices it aloud this time.

John sits up and happily obliges, holding out both of his still closed hands.

Both brothers seem to barely need an instant to make their choices. Sherlock reaches for John's left hand and Mycroft reaches for the other. They both get the right egg, leaving the doctor a little awed.

o0o

They get back inside after that and find Mrs Hudson waiting for them in the flat with home-made roasted lamb. They eat together, the four of them seated around the kitchen table.

In lieu of dessert, Mycroft receives a bunny with a red tie and an equally red umbrella clutched within his paws. Sherlock gets one with a grey cap and an oversized magnifying glass made out of marzipan. The look on both Holmes then is priceless and John regrets not having a camera to capture the moment. On second thought, he realises, there's very little chance that Mycroft would have allowed him to walk out of the room, with such compromising _evidence_.

The evening is very pleasant, the mood jovial and the discussion easy going. Just like in many other homes all over London that same night, a family shares a happy moment together. _The first of many_, John hopes.

o0o

Mrs Hudson takes her leave eventually, wishing them a good night and cautioning _her_ _boys_ not to eat all of the chocolate tonight. John insists that Mycroft stays for one last cup of tea and although the elder Holmes seems to be rather tired - probably because of all the walking around he did today - he accepts. All three men move to the living room with one large kettle filled with simmering water, three empty cups and a box full of tea bags.

The three men soon get into a lengthy discussion about improvements that could make the Ester Hunt even more challenging next year. The doctor is patiently explaining to his flatmate that the city's sewer system is off-limits, when he suddenly stops mid-sentence as he realizes that Mycroft has fallen asleep in the corner of the sofa.

Sherlock, who has his back to his brother and hasn't noticed, gives John a perplexed expression at his unexpected silence. The blonde indicates the sleeping ginger-haired man with a nod of his chin.

"Too much _legwork_?" John hints, lowering his voice slightly, so as to not wake the other man up. He is expecting a smile from Sherlock in return for his joke but the brunette's expression turns thoughtful and slightly worried instead.

"Mycroft never lets himself fall asleep somewhere he doesn't deem secured," Sherlock says, finding his brother's behaviour odd. He wonders an instant if maybe he's falling sick or something.

"That's because he does," John says simply. "Feel safe, here," he completes, when Sherlock turns on him a lost expression.

"You're here," he tries to explain further, with a wave of his hand thrown in the young man's general vicinity. "He trusts you to keep an eye on him."

_Oh,_ Sherlock thinks, feeling his chest constrict at the thought. He gazes at his brother again and takes in the odd position this time.

"I should wake him up," he says, thinking aloud. "He doesn't look comfortable."

His older brother is still mostly seated, only he has taken to lying on his right side, with his head pressed against the back of the sofa and his right arm awkwardly folded beneath it. If he sleeps on like that, he's going to hurt all over the next day, Sherlock knows. He also knows how cranky his brother gets at such times and he really doesn't want to have to deal with him like that, comes morning.

"Don't wake him up," his flatmate counters gently. "Just help him lie down, so he's comfortable," he finishes before standing up to retrieve an afghan from a cupboard and the pillows which - for some reason that probably has to do with one of Sherlock's latest experiments - are piled up, near the window.

The younger man does as he is told and gently pushes his brother down on the sofa, before lifting his legs up. Mycroft barely stirs in his sleep and Sherlock is amazed again that he feels safe enough with him to be sleeping so deeply. He removes the light-blue tie and polished shoes, undoes the first two buttons of his brother's shirt and drapes the afghan over him.

Mycroft looks different, Sherlock realises, sleeping like that. The ever-present worry lines around his eyes are gone; his face looks completely relaxed and it makes him appear a decade younger. His posture is unguarded and the habitual mask of coldness, that he wears most days, has vanished. _This_, Sherlock finds, is the brother he remembers from his early childhood. The one he used to go to when he felt unsecure; the one who would hold him close during unsecure nights.

John shuffles behind him and the detective returns his attention to his flatmate, twisting around to look at him.

"I'm going to bed," the blonde tells him. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John," the detective replies and the blogger leaves the room. "Wait," the younger man calls out to him, two seconds later, standing up and taking quick steps in his direction.

"Thank you," he says honestly to John who is on the first step of the stairs. "For today."

"You're quite welcome," the doctor assures him, with a warm smile. "I'm glad you had a good time."

"I did," Sherlock confirms. "We both did," he adds, looking back at his sleeping brother. "Thank you."

John nods to him understandingly, before climbing up the rest of the stairs, quietly. Sherlock returns to Mycroft's side to check on him one last time, before retreating to his own room.

"Good night, Mye," he murmurs, with a fondness he hasn't felt in years. Then a strange impulse he cannot fight has him bending down to place a close-mouthed kiss on his brother's temple. Standing back up, a little surprised at himself, he sighs.

He thinks of going to bed, but decides to sit down in his chair with a book instead. If Mycroft trusts him to make sure he is safe for the night, then he's going to do the job seriously. He falls asleep, eventually, in the wee hours of morning, thinking of children playing pirates.

When he wakes up, some four or five hours later, the detective finds himself alone in the room. His sibling is gone and John hasn't come down yet. The afghan that he placed over his older brother last night is now covering him and a pillow is safely tucked behind his head. Sherlock smiles upon noticing those two details and a comforting warmth settles deep within his chest. Closing his eyes, he drifts back to sleep.

**THE END**

* * *

_And here we are my lovelies... this story is now officially finished. I hope you've enjoyed it!_

_I know the ending is slightly silly and full of fluff; trust me, I did debate whether to post it or not. In the end, I decided to go forward with it, feeling that a little bit of brightness and happiness would be a nice way to conclude this rather dark fic._

_Thank you again a million for all your nice reviews and kind comments. Thanks also for the favs and alerts; it means a lot to know you appreciate my work enough to want to come back for more._

_I have another long Sherlock fic in the works, titled "**Two Words**". I should start publishing it, in a week or two, so keep those alerts on and be on the lookout for it._

_In the mean time you can keep an eye on my twitter acount to know what I'm up to (and to hear me raving about chocolate). The link is on my profile page._

_P.S: This fic is available to download in an easier on the eye, well polished and nicer to read version, if you want to print it for safe-keeping or just stash it somewhere on your computer. The link is also on my profile page._


End file.
